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AnnnAi SaMoripnon, t90> Entered at the Poet Ofllee, New York, aa Meead 
claMS matter, Oct. 16, 1688. 


UERR 


Countess 


MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER, 


Avthor of ** A Drbadful Tbmptatiom,’* “ Qubbnib's Tbrriblb 
Secret,** e-kv 


EW YORK 


( Nn'' 22lPPR Y) 


oriM W-lovEt 


PANY 


14 ^ i6 VE.5EY Street 



Is better than any soap ; handier, finer, more effec- 
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Beware of imitations,, prize packages and ped- 

JAMES PYLE, New York. 



LYDIA E. PINKHAM’S 


/EGETABLE COMPOUND 

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Lydia E. Pinlcham’s Vegetable Compound is prepared at Lynn, Mass. Pri^, $1.00. 
X bottles for $5.00. Sent by mall in the form of Pills, also In the form of Lozenges, on receipt 
f price, $1.00 per box, for either. Send for pamphlet. All letters of inquiry promptly an- 
ivered. Address as above. - > , . , - 




COPYRIGHTED 1883. 



OR, 


The Oath of 



Vengeaiice. 


By MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER. 


CHAPTER I. 

“DeadI” 

Leslie Noble reels backward, stunned by the shuddering horror 
of that one word — “ Dead! ” The stiff, girlish characters of the 
open letter in his hand waver up and down before his dazed vis- 
ion, so that he can scarcely read the pathetic words, so pathetic 
now when the little hand that penned them lies cold in death. 

“ Dear Leslie,” it says, “ when you come to bid me good-bye in 
the morning I shall be dead. That is best. You see, I did not 
know till to-night my sad story, and that you did not love me. 
Poor mamma was wrong to bind you so. I am very sorry, Les- 
lie. There is nothing I can do but die.'^ 

There is no signature to the sad little letter — none — ^but they 
have taken it from the hand of his girl- wife, found dead in her 
bed this morning — his bride of two days agone. 

With a shudder of unutterable horror, his glance falls on the 
lovely, girhsh face, lying still and cold with the marble mask of 
death on its beauty. A faint tinge of the rose lingers still on the 
delicate lips, the long, curling fringe of the lashes lies darkly 
against' the white cheeks, the rippling, waving, golden hair falls 
in billows of brightness over the pillow. This was his unloved 
bride, and she has died the awful and tragic death of the suicide. 
• ******** 

Let us go back a little in the story of this mournful tragedy, 
my reader, go back to the upper chamber of that stately man- 
sion, where, on a wild night in October, a woman lay dying — dy- 
ing of that subtle malady beyond all healing — a broken heart. 

“ Vera, my darling,” says the weak, faint voice, “ come to me, 
dear.” 

A little figure that has been kneeling with its face in the bed- 
clothes, rises and comes forward. The small, white face is 
drenched with tears, the dark eyes are dim and heavy. 

“Mamma,” the soft voice says, hopefully, “;^ou are better?” 

The wasted features of the invalid contract with pain. 


2 


COUNTESS VENA. 


“No, my little daughter,” she sighs, “I shall never be any 
better in this world. I am dying.” 

A stifled cry of pain, and the girl’s soft cheek is pressed to hers 
in despairing love. 

“ No, mamma, no,” she wails. “ You must not die and leave 
nae alone.” 

“Alone?” the mother re-echoes. “ Beautiful, poor and alone 
in the great, cruel world — oh, my God I ” 

“ You cannot be dying, mamma,” the girl says, hopefully. 
“ They — Mrs. Cleveland and Miss Ivy — could not go on to their 
balls and operas if you were as bad as that!” 

Something of bitter scorn touches the faded beauty of the wo- 
man’s face a moment. 

“ Much they would care,” she says, in a tone of scorn. “ At 
tliis moment my sister and her proud daughter are dancing 
and feasting at the Riverton’s ball, utterly careless and indiffer- 
ent to the fact that the poor dependent is lying here all alone, 
but for her poor, frendless child.” 

“ You were no dependent, mamma,” the girl says, with a 
gleam of pride in her dark eyes. “ You worked hard for all we 
have had. But, mamma, if — if you leave me, I will not be Ivy 
Cleveland’s slave any longer. I shall go away.” 

“ Where, dear?” the mother asks, anxiously. 

“ Somewhere,” vaguely; “ any where, away from these wick- 
ed Clevelands. I hate them, mammal” she says, with sudden 
.•passion in her voice and face. 

“ You do not hate Leshe Noble?” Mrs. Campbell asks, anxiously. 

“ No, mamma, for though he is akin to them he is unlike them. 
Mr. Noble is always kind to me,” Vera answers, musingly. 

“ Listen to me, Vera, child. JVIr. Noble I— likes you. He wish- 
es to marry you,” the mother exclaims, with a flush of excite- 
ment in her eyes. 

“ Marry me?” Vera repeats, a little blankly. 

“Yes, dear. Are you willing?” 

“ I — ^I am too young, am I not, mamma?” 

“ Seventeen, dear. As old as I was when I maried your fa- 
ther,” Mrs. Campbell answers with a look of heart pain flitting 
over the pallid face. 

“ I have never thought of marrying,” Vera goes on musingly. 

He will not be angry if I refuse, will he, mamma?” 

' “ But, Vera, you must not refuse,” the invalid cries out, in a 
sudden spasm of feverish anxiety. “ Your future will be settled 
if you marry Mr. Noble. I can die in peace, leaving you in the 
care of a good husband. Oh, my darling, you do not know what 
a cmel world this is. I dare not leave you alone, my pure, white 
lamb, amid its terrible dangers.” 

Exhausted by her eager speech she breaks into a terrible fit of 
coughing. Vera bends over, penitent and loving. 

“ Cheer up, mamma,” she whispers; “lam not going to refuse 
him. Since he wants me, I will marry him for your sake, 
dear.” 

“But you like him, Vera?” the mother asks, with piteous plead- 


COUNTESS VERA, 


3 


“Oh, yes,” calmly. “He is very nice, isn’t he? But, do you 
know, I think, mamma, that Ivy intended to marry him herself. 
I heard her say so.” 

“ Yes, I know, Wt you see he preferred you, my darling,” tlie 
mother answers, with whitening lips. 

“ Then I will marry him. How angry my cousin will be,” 
Vera answers, with all the calmness of a heart untouched by the 
grande passion. 

“Yes, she will be very angry, but you need not care, dear,’' 
Mrs. Campbell answers faintly. “Leslie will take you away 
from here. You will never have to slave for the Clevelands any 
more.” 

The door opens suddenly and softly. A tall, handsome man 
comes into the room, followed by a clerical-looking individual. 

“ Oh, Leslie, you are come back again,” Mrs. Campbell breathes, 
joyfully. “ I am glad, for I cannot last but a few minutes lon- 
ger.” 

“ Not so bad as that, I hope,” he says, gently, advancing to the 
bedside; then his hand touches lightly the golden head bowed on 
the pillow. “ Is my little bride ready yet?” he asks- 

The girl starts up with a pale, bewildered face. 

“Is it to be now?” she asks, blankly. “I thought — I 
thought ” 

But Mrs. Campbell, drawing her quickly down, checks the 
half protest \\ ith a feverish kiss. 

“ Yes, dear, it is to be now,” she whispers, weakly. “ I cannot 
die until I know that you will be safe from the Clevelands. It is 
my dying wish, Vera.” 

“ Then I am ready,” Vera answers, turning a pale and strange- 
ly-solemn face on the waiting bridegroom. 

The bridegroom is pale, too. His handsome face gleams out as 
pale as marble in the flickering glare of the lamps, the dark hair 
tossed carelessly back from the high, white brow, gleaming like 
ebony in the dim light. The dark, mustached lips are set in a 
grave and thoughtful line, the dark blue eyes look curiously into 
the bride’s white face as he takes her passive hand and draws 
her forward toward the waiting minister. 

It is a strange bridal. There are no wedding-favors, no wed- 
ding-robes, no congratulations. The beautiful marriage words 
sound very solemn there in the presence of the dying, and the 
girlish bride turns silently from the side of the new-made hus- 
band to seek the arms of her dying mother. 

“Bless you, my Vera, my little darling,” the pale lips whisper, 
and then there falls a strange shadow on the room, and a strange 
silence, for, with the murmured words of blessing, the chords ot 
life have gently parted in twain, and Mrs. Campbell’s broken 
heart is at rest and at peace in that Heavenly peace that “pass- 
eth aU understanding.” 


CHAPTER II. 

The long, wintry night wanes slowly. Vera’s own loving 
hands have robed the dead for the rest of the grave. She has 


4 


COUNTESS VERA. 


gone away now to the solitude of her own little ch^nber under 
the eaves, leaving Leslie Noble keeping watch beside the loved 
lost one. 

She has forgotten for a moment the brief and solemn words that 
gave her away to be a wife in her early innocent girlhood ; she 
remembers only that the one creature that loved her, and whom 
she loved, is dead. Crushed to earth by her terrible loss, Vera 
flings herself face downward on the chilly, uncarpeted floor, and 
lies there mute, moveless, teaidess, stricken into silence by the 
weight of her bitter despair. 

Who that has lost a mother, the one true heart that loves us 
truly and unselfishly of all the world, but can sympathize with 
the bereaved child in her deep despair. 

In vain the kind-hearted minister whispered words of comfort, 
in vain Leslie tried to soothe her, and win her to tears, in awe of 
her strange, white face and dry-lidded eves. They could not un- 
derstand her, and were fain to leave her alone, the while one 
quoted feaffuUy to the other : 

“ The grief that does not speak, 

Whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.” 

So the chilly night wanes, and at three o’clock in the morning, 
carriage wheels echo loudly in the street below, and pause in 
front of the house. The haughty mistress, and Ivy, her daughter, 
have returned from the esthetic ball whose delights they could 
not forego, although their relative Jay ill unto death in the house. 

A tap at Vera’s door, and Mrs. Brown, the chamber-maid, 
glances in. The worthy woman has been out at “ a party ” her- 
self, and is quite unconscious of all that has happened since she 
left the house. Her stolid gaze falls curiously on the recum- 
bent figure on the cold, hard floor. 

“Wake up. Miss Vera I Whatever be you a-sleeping on the 
cold floor this night for? Miss Ivy says for you to come down 
to her room immejitly.” 

Disdaining a reply to the coarse woman, Vera drags herself 
up from the hard floor, and with stiffened limbs takes her way 
to the luxurious apartment of her cousin. ^ 

How different this large and comfortable room from Vera’s 
bare and tireless little den. Miss Cleveland’s*'apartment has 
soft hangings of pale-blue plush, bordered with silver, cream- 
lace cuj^ins, a blue satin counterpane embroidered with sil 
very wMer-lilies. The atmosphere is warm and dreamy, and 
languid with the scent of hot-house flowers in blue and silver 
vases. The mistress of all this elegance stands in the center of 
the room, clothed in an esthetic gown of pale-blue, embroidered 
down the front with small sunflowers. She is a pretty blonde, 
with straw-colored hair in loose waves, and turquoise blue eyes, 
that usually wear an expression of infantine appeal and inno- 
cence. Just now the eyes look heavy and dull, and there is a 
tired, impatient look on her delicate-featured face. 

“ Here you are at last,’' she says, as Vera comes slowly in with 
her white face and heavy eyes, with their look of dumb and 


COUNTESS VERA. 


5 


hopeless pain. “Hurry up now and undress me; I’m tired and 
sleepy, and ready to drop I” 

Vera stands still, looking gravely at her, and making no move 
to obey the cool and insolent mandate. For years her cousin has 
ruthlessly trampled her under foot, and made her a despised 
slave. 

It comes to the girl with a sudden thrill of triumph now that 
this is the last time Ivy will ever order her about. She is Leslie 
Noble’s wife, and he will shield her from her cousin’s abuse. 

“ Come, don’t stand staring like a fool,” Ivy breaks out coarse- 
ly and impatiently. “ Don’t you see I’m waiting ? Here, pull off 
these tight slippers. I cannot stand them a minute longer 1” 

She throws herself into a blue-cushioned chair, and thrusts 
forward her small feet encased in white kid slippers and blue 
silk hose, and Vera, conquering her strong impulse of rebellion, 
kneels down to perform the menial service. 

After all, what does this last time matter? she asks herself, 
wearily. After to-morrow she will be out of their power. I'o- 
night, while that dear, dead mother lies in the house, she will 
keep still, she will have peace, no matter how bitter the cup of 
degradation pressed to her loathing lips. 

With steady hands she unlaces the silken cords that lace the 
white slippers, draws them off the compressed feet, and un- 
clasps the satin garters from the blue silken hose. All the while 
Ivy raves angrily: 

“ I have seen for some time that you rebel against waiting-on 
me, ungrateful minx, as if all you could do would repay us for 
the charity that has clothed and fed you all your life. To-mor- 
row I shall report you to your mother, and if she does not bring 
vou into better subjection, you shall both be driven away, do you 
hear?” 

Her mother I Tliis is the iron rod with whicli they have ruled 
poor Vera all her life long. That poor, drooping, delicate mother, 
whose hold on life had never been but half-hearted, whose only 
home and shelter had been the grudging and hard-earned charity 
of her heartless and parsimonious sister. Day in and day out the 
Clevelands had driven their two weak slaves relentlessly, always 
holding over then* heads the dread of being turned out to face the 
cold world alone. 

A low and bitter laugh rises to Vera’s lips at the thought that 
that poor, meek dependent is beyond their dominion now, and 
that Ivy’s threatened complaints can never rise to that high 
Heaven where her mother’s freed spirit soars in happiness and 
peace. 

“Not that you are of much account, anyway,” pursues the 
heartless girl, angrily. “ You can never be trained into a proper 
maid, you stiff-necked little pauper. If mamma were not so 
mean and stingy she would let me have a real French maid like 
other girls. Never mind, when once I am Mrs. Leslie Noble I'll 
show her how I wiU spend money!” 

Vera shivers, and her heart thumps heavily against her side. 
The one idea of Ivy’s life is to marry Leslie Noble. He is hand- 
some, fascinating, wealthy, in short, her lean ideal of perfection. 


6 


C0UNTE88 VERA, 


He has come on a month’s Tisit to her mother from a distant 
city, and both mater and daughter are sure, quite sure, that the 
object for which he Avas invited is accomplished; they have 
hooked the golden fish, they have no doubt. Wliat will Ivy say 
when she knows that she, the despised Vera, is Leslie Noble’s 
chosen bride? 

“She will kill me, just that!” the girl murmurs to herself in 
terror, while a second teiTor shakes her slight frame. 

What are you trembling for?” Ivy demands, shortly. “Are 
j’-ou afraid I will slap you as I did last night? Well, you richly 
deserve it, and I don’t know but that I may. Hurry, now, and 
fix my hair and bring my 7'ol)e de nuit. It will be broad daylight 
before I get into bed. And I want to rise early to find out why 
Leslie did not come to the ball.” 

Vera moves about mechanically, obeying orders, but answering 
never a word. 

A golden gleam has come into the eyes beneath the drooping 
lashes, a heavy, deep red spot glows in the center of her deatli- 
white cheeks. Half-frightened as she is at the thought of Ivy’s 
rage when she learns the truth, she is yet filled with triumph at 
the thought of her own vengeance on her enemies, this glorious 
vengeance that has come to her unsought. 

She will be Leslie Noble’s wife, she will queen it over Ivy and 
her mother. She will wear satin and laces and diamonds, she 
will have French maids to wait on her, and then a sudden 
anguished recollection drives the blood from her heart and forces 
a moan of despair from her white lips — what is all her triumph 
since it cannot bring back the dead? 

She is moving to the door, having tucked the blue satin counter- 
pane about Ivy’s small figure, when the straw-gold head pops up, 
and the frivolous beauty recalls her. 

“I say, Vera, is the embroidery finished on my Surah polo- 
naise? Because I shall want it to-moiTOw night to wear to Mrs. 
Montague’s german. Tell your mother I shall want it without 
fail. I am tired of this shamming sickness. It’s nothing but lazi- 
ness — just that. Did you say it was finished?” 

“ No,” Vera answers her, through her white lips. Ivy springs 
up tumultously in the bed. 

“ Not finished!” she screams, shrilly. 

“Scandalous! I tell you I want it to-morrow night! I will 
have it — you hear! Go and tell your mother to get up this instant 
and go to work at it. Go and tell her — you hear?” 

Vera, with her hands on the latch, and that crimson spot burn- 
ing dully on her cheeks, answers with sudden, passionate de- 
fiance; 

“ I will not !” 

All in a moment Ivy is out of bed, and her small, claw-like 
fingers clutch Vera’s arm, the other hand comes down in a ring- 
ing slap on Vera’s cheek. 

“Take that, little vixen!” she hisses, furiously, “and that, 
and that ! How dare you defy me?” 

Vera pushes her off wdth a sudden passionate defiance. 

“BecJiuse I am not afraid of you any longer,” she says, 


COUNTESS VERA, 7 

hliarply. “ Because poor mamma has escaped you. She is free 
— she is dead !” 

“ Dead !” Ivy screams in passionate wrath. Dead— anti the 
embroidery not finished on my Surah polonaise 1 It is just like 
her — the lazy, ungrateful thing ! To go and die just when 1 
needed ” 

But Vera slams the door between her and the rest of the heart- 
less lament, and flies along the hall laughing like some mad 
thing. In truth the horrors of this dreadful night have almost 
unseated her reason. She shuts and bolts herself into her room, 
her young heart filled with wild hatred for her heartless cousin 

“To-morrow I shall have my revenge upon her/*' she cries, 
with clenched hands. “ I would not tell her to-night. Mv 
triumph would not have been complete. I will wait — wait until 
to-morrow, when Leslie Noble will take me by the hand and tell 
her to her face that he loves me, and that I am his wife !” 

And her strange, half -maddened laugh filled the little room 
with weird echoes. 


CHAPTER III. 

To-morrow, Vera’s to-morrow — dawns, rainy, chilly, cheer 
less, as only a rainy autumn day can be. The wild winds sigh 
eerily around the house. The autumn leaves are beaten from the 
trees and swirl through the air, falling in dank, sodden masses 
on the soaked gxass of the lawn. The sun refuses to shine. No 
more dreary and desolate day could be imagined. 

With the earliest peep of dawn Vera makes her w^ay to her 
mother’s room. 

It is lonely and deserted save for the sheeted presence of the 
quiet dead. The lamps burn dimly, and there is a silence in the 
room so deep it may be felt. 

With a trembling hand Vera turns down the cold linen cover 
for one long, lingering look at the beloved face— the strangely- 
beautiful marble-white face, on w-hich the story of a life-long 
sorrow has carved its mournful record in the subtle tracery of 
grief. 

Mrs. Campbell has been that most sorrowTul of all living creat- 
ures — a deserted wifel 

The beautiful, dark eyes of her daughter have never looked 
upon the face of the father who should have loved and nurtured 
her tender life. 

But it is aU over now— the pain, the sorrow, the loneliness, the 
deep humiliation. The small, toil-stained hands are folded gently 
together over some odorous white tube-roses that Vera has 
placed within them! 

The jetty fringe of the long, black lashes rests heavily against 
the tliin, white cheeks, the beautifully-curved lips are closed 
peacefully, the golden bi-own han, thickly-streaked with gray, is 
parted sweetly on the peaceful brow. 

As Vera gazes, the tears, which have remained sealed in their 
fountains till now, burst forth in healing showers, breaking upon 
the terrible calm that has been upon her. 


COUNTESS VERA, 


Agai’i ai^d again she presses her hot, feverish lips to the cold, 
white brow of the only friend her lonely life has ever known. 

“ Oh, mamma, mamma, if you might but have taken me with 
you,” she sobs, bitterly. 

“ The best thing that could have happened,” says a curt, icy 
voice behind her, and turning with a shiver of repulsion, Vera 
beholds her aunt, Mrs. Cleveland, who has entered noiselessly in 
her furred slippers and crimson dressing-gown. 

She comes to the foot of the bed and stands silently a moment 
regarding the cold, w-hite features of her dead sister, then hastily 
turns her head aside as if the still face held some unspoken re- 
proach for her. 

“ Cover the face, Vera,” she says, coldly. “ It is not pleasant 
to look at the dead.” 

“ Not whe^ we have wronged them,” the girl murmurs, almost 
inaudibly, and with deep bitterness. 

“What is that you are saying?” demands Mrs. Cleveland, 
sharply. “‘Not when we have wronged them,’ eh? Beware, 
girl, how you let that shaip tongue of yours run on. You may 
chance to see the inside of the alms-house!” 

But Vera, biting her lips fiercely, in mute shame at that angry 
slip of the tongue in presence of the dead, makes no answer. 
Dropping the white sheet back over the sealed lips that cannot 
open to defend her child, she buries her face in the pillow, trem- 
bhng all over with indignation and grief. 

Mrs. Cleveland stands contemplating her a moment with a 
look of contemptuous scorn on her high, Roman features, then, 
to Vera’s amazement, she exclaims: 

“One of the servants told me that Leslie Noble brought a 
preacher in here last night. Was it to administer the sacrament 
to the dying?” 

No answer from Vera, whose face remains buried in the pil- 
low. 

“ Speak!” Mrs. Cleveland commands, coming a step nearer, 
“ did he come to administer the consolations of religion to the 
dying?” 

“No,” Vera answers, lifting her white face a moment, and 
looking steadily into her enemy’s questioning eyes. “No.” 

“ No,” Mrs. Cleveland echoes, with a look of alarm. “What 
then, girl, what then?” ' 

But Vera, with the strange reply, “ You must ask Mr. Noble — 
he will inform you,” drops her pallid face into her hands again. 

Mrs. Cleveland makes a step forward, resolving in her own 
mind “to shake the breath out of that stubborn girl,” but even 
her wicked nature is awed by the still presence of death in the 
room, and she desists from her heartless purpose, and, re- 
treating to the door, pauses with her hand on the latch to say, 
icily: 

“ Your mother’s funeral will take place from the Epiphany 
Church this afternoon. Mourning garments will be sent to your 
room for you to wear.” 

Vera springs to her feet with a heart-wrung cry; 


COUNTESS VERA. 


9 


“So soon! Oil, my God, you will not bury her out of my sight 
to-day, when she only died last night!” 

Mrs. Cleveland’s haughty features are convulsed with anger. 

“ Hush, you little fo(d!” she burst out, angi’ily. “ Do you think 
that dead people are such enlivening company that one need keep 
them in the house any longer than is necessary to provide a 
hearse and coffin? Only died last night, forsooth! Well, she is 
as dead now as she will be a hundred years hence, and the funeral 
will take place this afternoon. You will be ready to attend, if 
you understand what is good for yourself.” 

So saying, she sweeps from the room, slamming the door 
heavily behind her. 

Alas, the bitterness of poverty and dependence. Vera throws 
herself down by the side of the bed, and weeps long and bitterly, 
until exhausted nature succumbs to the strain upon it, and she 
sleeps deeply, heavily, dreamlessly, wrapped in a dumb, narcotic 
stupor rather than healthful slumber. She is hustled out of the 
way at length that her mother may be placed in the plain coffin 
that has been provided for her, and a few hours later — oh, so 
piteously few — she is standing by that open grave in Glenwood, 
hearing the dull thud of the earth, and the patter of the rain up- 
on the coffin, and the solemn voice of the minister, repeating in 
tones that sound faint and far away to her dazed senses, “ Ashes 
to ashes, and dust to dust.” 

From her carriage, where she sits impatiently waiting the con- 
clusion of the sacred service, Mrs. Cleveland watches the scene, 
frowning impatiently at the sight of Leslie Noble supporting Vera 
on his arm, and holding his umbrella carefully over her, reckless 
of the rain-drops that patter down on his uncovered head and 
face. Mrs. Cleveland does not like the look of it at all. She re- 
gards Leslie as Ivy’s own especial property. Leslie is too kind- 
hearted. Why should he trouble himself over Vera Campbell, 
her despised niece, who is no better than a servant to Ivy, her 
idolized daughter. She does not like the look of it at all, and 
when Leslie hands the sobbing girl into the carriage, and takes a 
seat by her side instead of Mrs. Cleveland’s, the matron’s vexa- 
tion rises into almost uncontrollable rage. Biting her lips fierce- 
ly, she resolves that as soon as they reach home she will give the 
young man a broad hint to cease his little kindnesses in that 
quarter. 

The occasion comes very soon. It is almost dark when they 
reach home. The gas is lighted and a cheerful fire glows in the 
luxurious parlor. 

Mr. Noble leads his passive companion deliberately in, and in- 
stalls her in a cushioned seat before the fire. With deft fingers 
he removes the heavy veil and hat, the black shawl, and the 
wet gloves, and chafes in his own warm clasp the half -frozen 
little fingers. 

“Upon my word!” drawls a thin little' \oice, full of anger and 
surprise. 

Mr. Leslie, glancing up, sees Ivy reclining on a couch, and re- 
garding the scene with supercilious surprise commingled wdtb 


10 


COUNTESS VERA. 


anger. ]\Irs. Cleveland, who has followed them into the room, 
stands still, a mute statue of rage and dismay. 

“I — I should like to know the meaning of this, Mr. Noble, ' 
she gasps at length, haughtily. “I do not allow that girl in my 
parlor! Let her go to the servants’ room. They are good enough 
for the likes of her. 

Mr. Leslie turns his pale, handsome face round with an air of 
surprise. 

“ She is your sisters child,” he says, with reproach in every 
tone of his voice. 

“ Yes, to my soitow,” Mrs. Cleveland flashes out. “Add to that 
that she is a pauper and an ingrate! Vera Campbell, get up and go 
to your own room. You ought to know your j)lace if Mr. Noble 
does not!” 

Vera rises silently, and standing still a moment, looks up into 
Leslie Noble’s face. The supreme moment of her triumph has 
arrived. With a nervous tremor she looks up into his face for 
courage to sustain her in the trying ordeal of the Clevelands’ 
wrath before its vials are poured out upon her shrinking head. 

But the expression of the handsome, troubled face does not ex- 
actly satisfy her. He is not looking at her. His eyes are fixed 
on Ivy Cleveland’s pretty face with its pink cheeks and turquoise- 
blue eyes. There is tenderness, regi-et and trouble in the rather 
weak though liandsome face. 

“Go, Vera,” Mrs. Cleveland reiterates, sternly and impatiently. 

Then Leslie’s eyes fall on the slight, black-robed figure standing 
in silent, proud humility by his side. 

He stoops over her, not to caress her, as for a moment she 
vaguely fancied, but to whisper in her ear: 

“Do as she bids you this time, Vera. Go to your room and 
sleep soundly to-night. I will have it out with her now, and in 
the morning I will take you away.” 

She flashes one quick glance into his troubled eyes, bows her 
head, and goes mutely from the room. But something in that 
look haunts Leslie Noble ever after. It seemed to him as if 
those dark eyes said to him plainer than words could speak: 
“ You are a coward. Are you not afraid to acknowledge your 
wife?” He is right. The look in her eyes has been palpable con- 
tempt. 

She goes from the room, but only to enter the room adjoining 
the parlor, and conceal herself behind the heavy, dark-green 
hangings. So this is the grand triumph her imagination has pict- 
ured for her. This is the weak way in which her husband takes 
her part against the world. 


CHAPTER IV. 

When Vera has gone from the room, an embarrassed silence 
falls. Mrs. Cleveland is wondering wdiat to say next. It is no 
part of her plan to offend Leslie Noble. She prefers to conciliate 
him. For Leslie himself, he is wondering in what terms he shall 
convey the truth to his arrogant relative and her haughty 
daughter. 


COUNTESS VERA. 


11 


“You must not take offense, Leslie, at my interference in this 
case,” Mrs. Cleveland stammers at length. “ I know your kind, 
easy nature, and I cannot tamely see you imposed upon by that 
wretched girl, who is the most ungrateful and hard-hearted 
creature you could imagine, and only fit to herd with the low 
and vulgar.” 

“ I do not understand you,” Mr. Noble answers, resting his arms 
on the back of the chair, and turning on her a white, perplexed 
face. 

“She comes of bad stock,” answered Mrs. Cleveland. “Her 
mother, my sister, married most wretchedly beneath her. The man 
was a low, drunken, brutal fellow, wdth nothing imder Heaven 
to recommend him but a handsome face. As might have been 
expected, he abused and maltreated his wife, and then deserted 
her just before the birth of his daughter, who resembled him ex- 
ceedingly in character as well as in person.” 

Leslie Noble winces. Pride of birth is a strong point with 
him. He is exceedingly well-born himself. The story of this 
drunken, wife-beating fellow thrills him with keenest disgust. 

“ Where is the fellow now— dead ?” he asks anxiously. 

“No, indeed ; at least, not that I ever heard of,” Mrs. Cleve- 
land answers. “ I have no doubt he is alive somewhere, in state 
prison, perhaps, and he will turn up some day to claim his 
daughter, and drag her down to his own vile depths of degrada- 
tion.” 

Mr. Noble is silent from sheer inability to speak, and Mrs. 
Cleveland resumes, with apparent earnestness : 

“ I have my doubts whether I am acting right in keeping the 
girl here. She is a dead expense to me, and the most ungratefni 
and violent-tempered creature that ever lived. Would you be- 
lieve that she fiew at poor, dear little Ivy, and boxed her ears 
this morning ? My pity and affection for my sister induced me 
to give them a home as long as she lived, but now that her in- 
fluence is withdrawn from Vera, she will be perfectly unman- 
ageable. I think I shall send her away.” 

“Where?” inquires Mr. Noble, trying to keep his eyes from the 
pink and white face of Ivy, who is listening intently to every 
word, without speaking herself. 

“To some place where she may earn her own living, or, per- 
haps, to the House of Correction. She sadly needs discipline,” is 
the instant reply. 

LesUe Noble’s face turns from white to red, and from red to 
white again. What he has heard has utterly dismayed him. 

“ I wish that I had known all this yesterday, or last night,” he 
mutters, weakly. 

“ Why?” Mrs. Cleveland asks, startled by the dejected tone. 

Leslie Noble looks from her to Ivy, who has started into a sit- 
ting posture, and fixed her blue eyes on his face. 

“Because I have something shocking to tell you,” he answers, 
mowing very pale. “You must not be angry with me, Mrs. 
Cleveland, nor you. Ivy. It would not have happened if I had 
known all that I know now.” 


12 


COUNTESS VERA. 


“Oh, what can you mean?” screams Ivy, startled into speech 
by her vague fear. 

“You remember that I declined- the Riverton’s ball last night - 
on the score of a violent headache?” he says, looking gravely at 
her. 

“ Yes, and I missed you so much. I did not enjoy the ball one 
bit” she murmurs, sentimentally. 

Mr. Noble sighs furiously. 

“ I wish that I had gone, no matter how hard my head ached,” 
he says, dejectedly. “Then Mrs. Campbell would never have 
sent for me to come to her room.” 

“ To come to her room I” mother and daughter echo in breath- 
less indignation. 

“Yes,” answers the young man, with another sigh. 

“Impertinent! What did she wish?” Mrs. Cleveland breaks 
out, furiously, pale to the lips. 

“ She wished to tell me that she was dying, and to leave her 
daughter in my care,” he stammers, confusedly. 

“ Go on,” Mrs. Cleveland exclaims. 

“She told me that Vera was delicate, sensitive, helpless and 
friendless, and so good and sweet that none could help loving 
her. She declared she could not die in peace without leaving her 
in the care of a kind protector.” 

“ A fine protector a young man would make for a young girl,” 
Mrs. Cleveland sneers, with cutting irony. 

“You do not understand, I think,” Leslie answers her, grave- 
ly. “ She wished me to make her my wife.” 

“ Your wife! Marry Vera Campbell!” Ivy shrieks out wildly. 

He trembles at the passionate dismay of her voice, but an- 
swers, desperately: 

“Vera Noble, now. Ivy, for her mother’s grief overcame my 
reason, and I made her my wife last night by the side of her dy- 
ing mother.” 


CHAPTER V. 

Following that desperate declaration from Leslie Noble, there 
is a scream of rage and anguish commingled. Ivy has fallen 
back on the sofa in violent hysterics. Mrs. Cleveland glares at 
liim reproachfully. 

“You have killed her, my poor Ivy!” she cries. “She loved 
you, and you had given her reason to think that — you meant to 
mar:^ her.” 

“ Idid so intend,” he answers, on the spur of the moment. 
“ I was only waiting to be sure of my feelings before I declared 
myself. But now, this dreadful marriage has blighted my life 
and hers. Poor little Ivy.” 

“ I could almost curse my sister in her grave!” Mrs. Cleveland 
wails, wringing her hands. 

“ Curse me rather,” Leslie answers, bitterly, “ that I was weak 
enough to be deluded into such a mesalliance. She was ill and 
dying, she barely knew what she did; but I was in full possession 


COUNTESS VERA. 

of my senses. Why did I let my weak pity overcome me, paid 
make me false to the real desire of my heart?” 

“Falsest, most deceitful of men!” sobs Ivy from her sofa, and 
Leslie takes her white hand a moment in his own, pressing it de- 
spairingly to his lips as he cries: 

“ You must forgive me, Ivy, I did not know how well I loved 
you until I had lost you.” 

Mrs. Cleveland interposes-sternly. 

' “Come, come, I cannot allow any tender passages between 
you two. If Leslie intends for this nefarious marriage to stand, 
it will be best that he shall remain a stranger henceforth to us 
both.” 

“ To stand?” Leslie repeats, looking at her like one dazed. 

“ Yes,” she answers, meaningly. “I ask you, Leslie, if such a 
marriage as this can be legal and binding?” 

“ Oh, yes, it is perfectly so,” he answers. 

“ Do you love her? Oh, Leslie, do you love that dreadful girl?” 
wails Ivy, from her sofa. 

He shakes his head, Mrs. Cleveland having interdicted other 
intercourse. 

“Do you intend to live with her?” Mrs. Cleveland queries, 
significantly. 

“Pray, what else can I do?” Mr. Noble queries, bewildered, 
and Ivy groans, lugubriously. 

“ Oh, nothing, nothing,” the lady answers, with a scornful 
laugh. “But if it were me who had been deluded into such a 
marriage with a low and mercenary girl, I am sure that nothing 
could induce me to live with her. I would either divorce her, or 
pension her off.” 

Mr. Noble walks up and down the floor with folded arms, m 
deep agitation. 

“It would be quite impossible to procure a divorce,” he an- 
swers, after a moment’s thought. “I could assign no earthly 
cause for demanding one. I married her of my own free will, 
though I admit I was unduly persuaded. ” 

“ All she cares for is your money,” snaps Ivy, quite ignoring 
the fact that this was her own motive for winning him. “ It will 
kill me if you take her home with you, Leslie. I shall die of a 
broken heart.” 

“Poor, deceived dear,” sighs her mother, while Leslie breaks 
out, ruefuUy: 

“ What else can I possibly do. Ivy?” 

Mrs. Cleveland, who had been silently cogitating, answers with 
sudden blandness: 

“ If you want my advice, Leslie, you shall have it, unfairly as 
you have treated us. I say the girl is ignorant and uneducated, 
and quite unfit to become the mistress of your elegant home in 
Philadelphia. If you are compelled to stick to your unlucky 
bargain, you must try and make the best of it. You will have 
to put her into a strict convent school where her ill-nature will 
be tamed down, and her manners educated up to the proper 
standard for your wife. How do you like that plan?” 

Her magnetic gaze is fixed on Ivy as she speaks, compelling 


14 C0UNTE88 VERA. 

lier to be silent, tliougli she was raising her shrill voice in protest, 

“ Would they be harsh with her?” Leslie asks anxiously, some 
instinct of pity for the orphan girl struggling blindly in his heart. 

“ Not at aU. I was educated at a convent school rayself. I 
liked it very much. But you will have to be very positive about 
Vera, to induce her to go. She will wheedle you out of the 
notion if possible. Raw, untrained girl as she is, she thinks she 
is quite capable of doing anything, or filling any position. But 
if you listen to her, you will find yourself mortified and dis- 
graced directly,” blandly iasinuates the wily woman. 

Leslie Noble winces as she had meant he should. He is very 
proud and sensitive, this rich, handsome man who finds himself 
placed, through his weakness, in such a sore strait.. 

“ I think your plan is a very good one,” he says, hastily. “ Do 
you know where there is a school, such as you named just now?” 

“ I can give you the address of one in Maryland,” Mrs. Cleve- 
land answers, readily. 

“ I will go there to-morrow and make arrangements for her 
reception as a pupil,” he replies. “ Would it be better to apprise 
her of my intention beforehand ?” he inquires with some embar- 
rassment. 

“ No, decidedly not. She might find means to circumvent you. 
She is a very sharp witted girl. Merely tell her that you ai’e 
called away unexpectedly, on business, and that you will leave 
her in ihy charge until you return.” 

“ Would it be agreeable to you to have her stay that long?” he 
queries. 

Mrs. Cleveland smiles a little grimly. 

“ Of course, as your wife, Vera may "expect every courtesy from 
me,” she answers in a strange kind of voice, and there the con- 
ference ends. 

From her hiding-place in the adjoining room Vera creeps out 
with a white face, and takes her way up-staii’s to her mother’s 
room. Her step is slow and heavy, her eyes are dull and black, 
there is no single gleam of brightness in them. The last drop has 
been added to the already overflowiag cup of misery and de- 
spair. 

With an unfaltering hand she goes to a small medicine chest 
kept for her mother’s use, and unlocking it, takes out two small 
vials filled with a dark-colored liquid. Each vial has a label 
pasted on, containing written directions for use, but without the 
name of the drug. 

Vera knits her straight, black brows thoughtfully together as 
she puzzles over them. “ I remember,” she says, aloud, “that 
mamma said one would produce a long, deep sleep, the other — 
deathi Now which is which? ” 

After a minute she decides to her satisfaction, and placing one 
vial back, goes away with the other in her bosom. In her own 
little room she sits down to pen a few words to Leslie, then 
slowly kneels by the bedside. 

“I do not think anyone can blame me,” she murmurs, “not 
even God. The world is so cold and hard I cannot live in it any 
longer. I am going to my mother.” 


COUNTESS VERA. 15 

Some broken, pleiiding words falter over the quivering, white 
lips, then a low amen. 

She rises, puts the treasured vial to her lips, and drains the last 
bitter drop, throwing the empty vessel on the hearth where it 
cracks into a hundred fragments. Then she lies down uiDon the 
bed with her letter to Leslie clenched tightly in her slim white 
hand. And when they come to awake her in the morning, she is 
lying mute and pale, with the marble mask of death over all her 
beauty. 


CHAPTER VI. 

When they tell Leslie Noble the fatal truth — when they lead 
him to the cold, bare chamber where his girl-wife lies dead, he is 
stunned by the swift and terrible blow that the hand of fate has 
dealt him. A quick remorse has entered his soul. He did not 
love her, yet he would not have the light of her young, strong 
life go out in darkness like that. 

Though he has walked the floor of his room all night, raving, 
and almost cursing himself because he had married her, the sight 
of her now — hke that — and the sad pathos of that brief letter 
touch him to the depths of his heart with a vain remorse and 
pity. With a faltering voice he reads aloud the sad and hopeless 
words: 

“ When you come to bid me good-by in the morning I shall be 
dead. That is best. You see, I did not know till to-night my sad 
story, and that — that you did not love me! Poor mamma was 
wrong to bind you so. I am very sorry, Leslie. There is nothing 
I can do but die!” 

His glance falls on Mrs. Cleveland, Tvho is standing in tlie room 
with a strange expression upon her face. He does not like to 
think it is r^ief and satisfaction, and yet it is marvelously like it. 

“ Who has told her the tmth? How has she learned it?” he 
asks. “ I never meant that she should know. I meant to do my 
duty by the poor, friendless girl.” 

“No one told her. She must have listened at the door last 
night. It was hke her low, mean disposition to be peeping, and 
prying, and hstening to what did not concern her,” Mrs. Cleve- 
land bursts out, scornfully. 

“Pardon me, but our conversation did concern her,” he an- 
swers, gravely. 

“At least, it was not intended for her hearing,” she rephes, 
shortly. 

Mr. Noble is silent a moment, gazing earnestly at the pale, 
dead face, from which the woman’s eyes turn in fear and aver- 
sion. 

“ Perhaps we have wronged her,” he says, slowly. “If she 
had been* what you believed her — coarse and low, and violent 
like her father — would she have been driven,” shudderingly, *• lo 
this!” 

“ You are allowing a maudlin sentimentality to run away with 
your reason, Leslie,” the woman answers, coldly. ‘ Do you sup 
pose I have lied to you? The girl has lived here since infancy. X 


16 


C0VNTES8 VERA. 


knew her temper well, and I repeat that «he was unbearable. I 
only endured her for her mother’s sake. This is very sad. Of 
course, you feel badly over it. And yet, common sense whispers 
that this is a most fortunate thing for you. You are freed from 
a galling bond. Had she lived, she would almost inevitably have 
become a sorrow and a disgrace to you.” 

“We should not speak ill of the dead,” he answers, a little 
sternly. 

“Pardon me; I know there are some truths which we innately 
feel, but should not give expression to,” she answers, with keen 
irony. 

“ Does Ivy know?” he asks her. 

“Not yet; poor dear, I have been watching by her bedside all 
night. She is ill and almost heart-broken. I must go and break 
the news to her now.” 

She moves to the door, but, seeing him standing irresolute in 
the center of the floor, looks back over her shoulder to say, anx- 
iously: 

“Will you come away now, Leslie? The women would like to 
come in to prepare the body for the gTave.” 

He shivers, and turns to follow her, casting one long, lingering 
look at the fair, immobile face upon the pillow. 

“ I did not know she was so beautiful,” he murmurs to him- 
self as he passes out. 

“ Have you no message to send Ivy?’' Mrs. Cleveland asks him, 
as they pass along the haU. “ She would be so glad of even one 
kind word from you.” 

“I thought you interdicted all intercourse between us last 
night,” he answers, blankly. 

“ 'Xes; but the obstacle no longer remains,” she replies, signifi- 
cantly, and, with a violent start, Leslie realizes the truth of her 
words. In his horror and surprise he had not thought of it be- 
fore. Yes, Vera’s death has set him free — free to marry Ivy 
when he will. 

“ Tell her that I am very sorry she is ill. I hope she will soon 
be better, ” he answers, gravely and courteously. He will not 
say more now out of respect to the dead, and Mrs. Cleveland is 
wise enough not to press him. 

Ivy, whose pretended illness is altogether a sham, is jubilant 
over the news. 

“Was there ever anything more fortunate?” she exclaims. 
“ Lucky for us that she hstened, and found out the truth.” 

“Yes, indeed, she saved me a vast deal of plotting and plan- 
ning, for I was determined that she should be put out of the way 
somehow, and that soonV Mrs. Cleveland answers, heartlessly. 
“ The little fool I I did not think she had the courage to kill her- 
self, but I am very much obliged to her.” 

“ ‘ Nothing in her hfe became her like the leaving it,’ ” Ivy 
quotes, heartlessly. 

“ Remember, Ivy, you must not allow Leslie to perceive your 
joy. He is very peculiar— weak-minded, indeed,” scornfully. 
“And he might be offended. Just now he is carried away by a 
maudlin sentimentality over her tragic death.” 


COUNTESS VERA. 


17 


“ Never fear for me. I shall be discretion itself,” laughs Ivy. 

“ But, of course, I shall make no display of grief. That could not 
be expected.” 

“ Of course not. But it will be a mark of respect to Leslie if 
you will attend the funeral to-morrow,” 

“ Then I will do so, with a proper show of decorum. I am de- 
termined that he shall not slip through my fingers again.” 

So the two cruel and wicked women plot and plan, wliile the 
poor victim of their heartlessness lies up-stairs dead, in all her 
young, winsome beauty, with her small hands folded on her 
quiet heart, and the black-fringed lashes lying heavily against 
the marble- white cheeks. They have robed her for the grave, 
and left her there alone, with no one “ to come in and kiss her to 
lighten the gloom.” 

So the day wanes and the night, and Vera lies still and wliite 
in the long black casket to which they have consigned her. They 
have left the cover olf, and only a transparent veil lies hghtly 
across her face, through which her delicate features show clearly. 
How wonderfully the look of life lingers still; how the pink lips 
retain the warm, pink coloring of life. But there is no one to 
note how wonderfully death has spared her fairness; no one to 
exclaim, with the power of affection: 

“ She looks too sweet and life-like for us to bury her out of our 
sight.” 

Afternoon comes, and they carry the casket down into the par- 
lor where a little group are waiting to hear the brief service of 
the black-robed minister. Then they gather around in the 
gloomy, darkened room, glance shudderingly at the beautiful 
white face, and turn away, wliile the stolid undertaker screws 
down the coffin-lid over the desperate young suicide. After that 
t e solemn, black-plumed hearse is waiting to bear her away to 
1 3 r rest, by her mother’s side. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” 

‘ Resquiescat in pace.’’' 

* * * * * * * * 

Leslie Noble goes home that night. In his character of a wid- 
ower, he must wait a little space before he renews his suit to the 
impatient I^. 

“ You will come back to me soon, Leslie dear?” she sighs, sem 
timentally, as she clings to his arm. 

“As soon as decorum permits me,” he replies. “Will you 
wait for me patiently, Ivy?” 

“Yes, only do not stay too long,” she answers, and he presses 
a light kiss on her powdered forehead, which Ivy takes in good 
faith as the solemn seal of their betrothal. 

******* * 

“ Oh, dear, it is very lonely,” Ivy sighs, that evening, as she 
and her mother'sit alone in the luxurious parlor, where so late 
the presence of death cast its pall of gloom. “I miss Leslie very 
much. Shall we be obliged to seclude ourselves from all gaiety, 
mamma, just because those two people— the plague of our lives 
— are dead?” ^ , 

“I am afraid so — for awhile, at least, dear. People would 
think strange, you know, my dear Ivy, if we did not make some 


18 


COUNTESS VERA, 


outward show of grief,” Mrs. Cleveland answers, thoughtfully, 
for she has been turning the matter over in her own mind, and, 
like her daughter, she cannot endure the thought of foregoing 
the daily round of fashionable plejasures that are “ meat and drink 
to her.” 

“ How horrid!” complains Ivy. “ I should die of the dismals! 
Listen, mamma, I have a plan.” 

“ Really?” Mrs. Cleveland asks, with faint sarcasm, for her 
daughter is not at aU clever. 

“Yes, although you think I am so stupid,” Ivy answers, vi- 
vaciously. “ It is this, mamma. Let us leave Washington and 
go south this winter to one of the gayest, most fashionable cities, 
and have a real good time where nobody can expect us to be 
snivelling several long months over two deaths that give us un- 
qualified pleasure.” 

“ Vera and her mother were very useful to us, after all,” Mrs. 
Cleveland answers, with a sigh to the memory of her purse. ‘ ‘ They 
saved me a good deal of money in dressmaking bills and the like. 
They more than paid for their keeping.” 

“ What a stingy, craving soul you have, mother,” Ivy ex- 
claims, impatiently. “ But what do you think of my plan?” 

“ It is capital and quite original. I did not give you credit for 
so much invention,” Mrs. Cleveland answers, smiling at her 
daughter. 

“Shall we go, then?” Ivy inquires. 

“Yes, if ” Mrs. Cleveland is beginning to say, when she is 

interrupted by the swift unclosing of the door, and a man comes 
into the room, pausing abruptly in the center of the apartment, 
and fixing his burning black eyes on the face of Mrs. Cleve- 
land. * 

He is tall, dark, princely handsome, with a face full of fire and 
passion, blent with “cureless melancholy.” His dark hair, 
thickly streaked with gray, is tossed carelessly back from his 
broad, white brow, and an air of nobility is indelibly stamped on 
eveiw straight, aristocratic feature. Mrs. Cleveland springs to 
her feet with a cry of surprise and terror: 

“ Lawrence Campbell!” 


CHAPTER VII. 

After that one shriek of su:^rise and almost terror, Mrs. 
Cleveland remains silent, devouring the man’s face with a gaze 
as fixed and burning as his own. Ivy, in her corner, is forgotten 
by her mother, and unnoticed by the stranger. 

“ Yes, Lawrence Campbell,” he answers her in a deep, hoarse 
voice, that thrills to the hearts of the listeners. “Are you glad 
to see me, Mrs. Cleveland?” 

“ Glad! ” she shudders, in an indescribable voice. 

“After these long years,” he pursues, speaking under the 
spur of some deep, overmastering agitation, “ I have come back 
to curse you, traitorous, false-hearted woman, and to make atone- 
ment.” 

“Atonement! ” she falters, with a start of fear. 


COUNTESS VERA. 


19 


“Yes, Marcia Cleveland, atonement,” he bursts out passion- 
ately. “Tell me, where is the dear, true angel- wife whom I was 
led to believe false and unfaithful to me, through your heartless 
machinations. At last I know the truth, at last I know you, 
devil that you are! You maligned the truest, purest, gentlest 
woman that ever lived! Your own sister, too — the beautiful, in- 
nocent child that was left to your charge by her dying parents. 
God only knows what motive you had for your terrible sm.” 

She glares at him with fiery eyes from which the momentary 
fear has fled, leaving them filled with the mocking light of a 
wicked triumph. 

“ You should have known my motive, Lawrence Campbell,” she 
bursts out, passionately. “ When I first met you in society, the 
plain, untitled English gentleman, I was a young, beautiful, 
wealthy widow, and by your attentions and visits you led me to 
believe that you loved me. 

“ Then Edith came home from her boarding-school, and with 
her' baby-face and silly school-girl shyness won you from me. 
You married her, and the very torments of the lost were mine, 
fori loved with a passion of which she, poor, weak-natured creat- 
ure, could never dream. Did you think I could tamely bear the 
slight that was put upon me? No, no, I swore revenge — a deep 
and deadly revenge, and I have had it; ha, ha! a costly cup, full 
to the brim and running over!” 

She pauses with a wild and maniacal laugh. The man stares 
at her with starting eyes and a death-white face. The enormity 
of the wrong that has been done him seems to strike him dumb. 

“ I have had a glorious revenge,” she goes on, wildly, seeing 
that he cannot speak; “ you fell an easy prey to my plan of venge- 
ance through your foolish and ridiculous jealousy. Through 
the efficient help of a poor, weak foci who loved me I made you 
believe Edith false and vile, and taunted you into deserting her! 
Have you suffered? Ah, God, so did I! I was on fire with 
jealousy and hate. Every pang I made you and Edith suffer was 
lie balm to my heart. I parted you, I came between your wed- 
ded hearts, and made your life and hers a hell! Aye, and your 
child’s, too — ha, ha, I made her weep for the hour in which she 
was born!” , , , j 

She tosses her white arms wildly in the air, and laughs low and 
wickedly with the glare of malice and revenge in her flashing, 
black eyes. She is transformed from the handsome, clever wo- 
man of the world into a mocking devfi. Even Ivy, who knows 
her mother’s heartlessness as none other know, stares with dis- 
tended eyes at the infuriated woman. She involuntarily recalls 
a verse she has somewhere read: 

“ Earth has no spell like love to hatred turned, 

And hell no fury like a woman scorned.” 

“ My child,” the man breaks out, with a yearning heart-hunger 
in his melancholy eyes. ‘ ‘ She lives then— my child, and Edith’s ! 
Oh, God, will she ever forgive me the wrong I have done her 
mother? Speak, woman— devil, rather— and tell me where to 
find my Edith and her little one!” 


20 


G0UNTES8 VEBA, 


“ Little one!” mocks Mrs. Cleveland, scornfully. “ Do you for- 
get, Lawrence Campbell, that seventeen years have come and 
gone since you deserted Edith and her unborn child?” 

“ No, I am not likely to forget,” he answers, vrith the bitterness 
of remorse in his low voice. “ The child must be a woman now. 
But I will atone to Edith and her child for all I have made them 
suffer through your sin. I am rich, now, and I have fallen heir 
to a title in my native land. Edith will be a countess, our child 
a wealthy heiress. And I will make them happy yet. My heart 
is young, although my hair is gray. I love my wife yet, with all 
the fire of youth. Tell me where to find them, Marcia Cleveland, 
and for that one act of grace, I will forgive you all the black 
and sinful past.” 

He pauses, with his hollow, burning eyes fixed eerily upon her, 
waiting her reply. The autumn winds wail sharply round the 
house, the chilly rain taps at the window pane with ghostly fin- 
gers, as if to hint of those two graves lying side by side under the 
cold and starless slcy of night. 

“ Tell me,” she says, putting aside his questions scornfully. 
“ How did you learn that I had deceived you?” 

“ From the dying lips of your tool — Egbert Harding. He was 
in London — dying of the excesses brought on by a fast and wicked 
life. At the last he repented of his sins, afraid to face the God 
whom his wicked life had outraged. He sent for me and con- 
fessed all — how he had lent himself to your diabolical plan to 
dupe and deceive me. He swore to me that my beautiful Edith 
was as innocent as an angel. I left him, poor, frightened, despair- 
ing wretch, at his last gasp, and came across the seas to seek for 
you aftd my wronged wife. Tell me, Marcia, for I can wait no 
longer; my heart is half-broken with grief and suspense. "Where 
shall I find my wife and child ?” 

their graves she answers, with the hollow and exultant 
laugh of a fiend. 

Lawrence Campbell reels backward as if some invisible hand 
liad smitten him across the face. He throws up his thin, white, 
((uivering hands in the air, as though in the agonies of death. But 
in a moment he rallies himself and looks at the tormenting fiend 
with lurid, blazing eyes. 

“You lie!” he exclaims, hoarsely. “ You are false to the core 
of your heart, Marcia. I will not believe you. God, who knows 
liow much I have suffered, would not afflict me so cruelly. I ask 
you again — where are they?” 

“ And I tell you they are deadP' she answers, hoarsely. “ If 
you will not believe me, go to Glenwood. You know our family 
burial-plot. There you will find two new-made graves. Ask the 
sexton whose they are, and he will tell you Mrs. Campbell’s and 
her daughter Vera’s. Your wife died three nights ago — died of 
a broken he art, while I, her sister who hated her, was dancing 
at a ball! Your daughter, Vera, died the night before last by 
her own hand— died the death of the suicide! Ha, ha!” slie 
laughed, sneeringly, “ have I not had a glorious revenge for my 
slighted love?” 

“ I will not believe you—T cannot. It is too terrible,” Law- 


C0UN2ES8 VERA. 21 

tence Campbell moans, with his hands pressed to his head, and a 
tlazed look in his great, black eyes. 

“You may, for it is true,” exclaims Ivy, coming forward into 
the light, with a wicked triumph in her pale-blue eyes. “If you 
will not believe my mother, go to the graveyard and see, as she 
bade you.” 

He lifts his eyes and stares at her a moment, a white, dizzy 
horror on his face. The next moment he reels forward blindly, 
like some slaughtered thing, and falls in a white and senseless 
heap upon the floor. 

“You have killed him, too, mamma,” Ivy exclaims, exultant- 
ly* 

The heartless woman, turning around, spurns the fallen body 
with her foot. 

“ A fit ending to the tragedy,” she utters, cruelly. “ Ring the 
bell for a servant, Ivy.” 

In a moment a white-aproned menial appears in the room. 
Mrs. Cleveland looks at him frowningly. 

“ John, who admitted this drunken fellow into the house?” she 
inquires, sharply. 

“ I did, madam. He said be was an old friend of youra,” tlie 
man answers respectfully, “Is anything wrong about it, 
madam? He seems,” bending over him, “ to be dead.” 

“ Dead drunk,” the woman utters, scornfully. “ Drag him out 
of the house, John, and throw him into the street.” 

The man stares in consternation. 

“ It’s pouring down rain, ma’am,” he exclaims, deprecatingly, 
“ and pitchy dark. Hadn’t I best call the police?” 

“ Do as I bid you,” Mrs. Cleveland storms. “Throw him into 
the street, and leave him there. And mind how you admit such 
characters into the house again, or you may lose your place!” 

She stands still with lowering brows, watching the man as he 
executes her orders, dragging the heavy, unconscious form from 
the room, and along the hall to the door. 

When the lumbering sound has ceased, and the heavy clang of 
the outer door grates sharply on the silence, she draws a deep 
breath of relief. 

“ Now I know why you always hated Vera and her mother so 
much,” Ivy exclaims. “Why did you never tell me, mamma?” 

“It was no business of yours,” Mrs. Cleveland answers, 
sharply. 

“ Oh, indeed, we are very lofty!” Ivy comments, impudently. 

Mrs. Cleveland makes her no answer. She has sunk into the 
depths of a velvet-cushioned chair, and with lowered eyelids and 
protruding lips seems to be grimly brooding. Her form seems 
to have collapsed and grown smaller, her face is ashy wliite. 

“You are a smarter and wickeder woman than I gave you 
credit for,” Ivy resumes, curiously. “So, then, the tale you told 
Leslie Noble about Vera’s dissipated father was altogether false.” 

“ Yes,” her mother mutters, mechanically. 

But presently she starts up like one in a panic. 

“Ivy, we must go away from here,” she exclaims, in a strange 
and hurried voice. “ I am afraid to stay.” 


2.0 


COUNTESS VERA. 


“ Afraid of what ?” Ivy queries, impatiently. 

“Of Lav. rence Campb^l’s vengeance,” the woman answers, 
fearfully. “ It is a fearful wrong I have done him, and lie will 
strike me back. We must fly — fly from his wrath ! ’ 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The unconscious man who has been so heartlessly thrust forth 
in the bleak, inclement night, lies still upon the wet and flinty 
pavement, his ghastly face upturned to the uncertain flicker of 
the street lamps, his eyes closed, his lips half parted as if he were, 
indeed, dead. No one is passing, no one notes that the form of 
an apparently dead man has been hustled out of the inhospitable 
gates of the stately Cleveland I\Iansion. None care to be abroad 
tliis wet and windy night. The chilly rain beats down into the 
still, white face, and at last revives l:dm. He drags himself 
wearily up to his feet, and clinging to the iron spokes of the or- 
namental lawn fence, stares up at the dark, gloomy-looking build- 
ing which now, with closed and darkened windows, appears 
dreary as a tomb. He shudders, and his eyes flash luridly in the 
darkness. 

“ May the curse of God light uj)on her,” he murmurs, distract- 
edly. “ She robbed me of everything, and laid my life bare and 
desolate. My heart is a bare and empty ruin where the loath- 
some bats and shrieking night birds of remorse flap their ebon 
wings in the haunted darkness. Edith, Vera, my wu-onged, my 
murdered darlings — would God that you might have lived to for- 
give me for the madness that ruined your lives, and broke your 
tender hearts 1” 

No answer comes to his wild appeal from the wide and limit- 
less spaces of the black night. Those two w’hom he adjures so 
despairingly, lie still “under the sod and the dew,” deaf to his 
yearning calls, though he cry out ever so loudly to them, from his 
sore and tortured heart. 

^ And at last, tormented with doubts, and longing to know .the 
truth, for he cannot trust the oath of the false Marcia Cleveland, 
he flings himself into a passing car that goes toward the ceme- 
tery, fired with the wild resolve that he would never believe her 
wucked assertion until he can prove its truth — not until looking 
into the cofiin, and calling on her loved name, he shall know that 
his wife is surely dead, because she is dumb to the wild and 
yearning cry of his heart. 

A wild resolve — ^worthy of a madman. But Lawrence Camp- 
bell is scarcely sane to-night. Remorse and despair have driven 
him wild. 

Gold— potent gold— what will it not buy ? It opens the gates 
of the cemetery to the wronged, haK-maddened husband and 
father, it throws off the heavy clods that lie between him and the 
face he yearns for. Quick and fast fall the rapid strokes of the 
spade, the dull thud of the fresh earth thrown out on the soft 
grass is continuous. 

At last the sexton, pausing to take breath and wipe the beaded 
dews from his hot brow’, utters a smothered cry of dismay ; 


GOUNTESf^ VERA. 23 

“ What was I thinking of to blunder so ? I h ave made a great 
mistake, sir. This is the daughter’s grave, not the mother’s.” 

“No matter — go on with your work. Let me see the face of 
the child that I never beheld in hfe,” Lawrence Campbell an- 
swers, resolutely. 

Seeing how useless would be remonstrance the sexton bends to 
his task again. In a few minutes the earth is all out, but it re- 
quires the united strength of both men to raise the casket and lay 
it upon the upper ground. 

“Now the lid — have it off quickly,” gi’oans the wretched man; 
“ and the lantern. Bring it near that I may look on my dead.” 

Eagerly he kneels on the ground and scans the beautiful white 
features of-the dead. A groan burst from his lips: 

“ It is she, my wife, my lost Edith, still young and beautiful as 
when I wooed her to be my owni Ah, even time and death could 
not efface that surpassing loveliness!” 

But the sexton answers, compassionately: 

“Ah, sir, it is not your wife, but your daughter. Your wife 
had grown older and sadder. Her bonny locks were mixed with 
gray;- 1 used to see her here on many a Sabbath when she came to 
weep by her parents’ graves. This, sir, is your daughter, with 
her mother’s face.” 

“My daughter, with her mother’s face!” he cries, and stoops to 

{ )ress a long-lingering kiss on the white brow beneath the care- 
ess rings of sunny hair. He starts back with a loud cry: “ My 
God!” 

The sexton trembles with apprehension. 

“ My dear sir, let me beg you to be more prudent,” he whispers. 
“ What if we should be discovered?” 

But Lawrence Campbell’s face is transfigured with a trembling 
hope and joy. 

“ I beheve that I am sane,” he exclaims, “ I do not believe that 
I am dreaming. Yet when I kissed Vera’s brow it felt warm and 
moist like the flesh of the living. Tell me, am I right?” 

The sexton wipes his grimy hand to press it on the fair, girl- 
ish brow. He bends his ear to the delicate lips that still retain 
the warm, natural coloring of life. A smothered cry breaks 
from him. 

“ You are right, Mr. Campbell. Her flesh is warm and moist, 
her color is life-like and natural, and she breathes faintly. Oh, 
wonderful— most wonderful! She seems to be in a deep trance- 
like sleep. How terrible — how terrible to think of! Your daugh- 
ter has been buried alive.” 

“ She lives!” the father echoes, in wild thankfulness. 

“ She lives and we must carry her to my cottage as soon as 
possible. She must not awaken in this dreadful place. It would 
frighten her into real death,” answers the sexton. 

They lift the slight form out of its grim receptacle and bear 
her to the sexton’s secluded cot where he lives alone, his wife 
having died a few months previous. They lay her down on Ids 
clean bed in the warm, cozy room; and still her strange, deep 
slumber is unbroken. 

“ I will watch beside her,” says Mr. Campbell, “ You must ^o 


24 COUNTESS VERA. 

back, restore the empty coffin to the grave, and throw in the 
earth again.” 

“You do not wish that this discovery shall ever be known, 
then?” the sexton asks, gravely. 

“ No — at least not now,” Mr. Campbell answers, after a pause 
of silent thought. 

A moment later he adds, wistfully: 

“ My wife’s grave — ^you will open that too? Who knows but 
that she, too, may be only sleeping?” 

“ It is scarce probable, sir, but I will do it to satisfy you,” the 
sexton answers, moving away. 

The dawn of a new day is breaking when he returns, having 
just finished his weary task. Lawrence Campbell starts up from 
his weary vigil by his daughter’s silent form. 

“You promised to come for me, and I waited and waited!” he 
cries, reproachfully. “ You did not do as I bade you.” 

The old sexton’s face is ashen gray as if with the memory of 
some recent horror. 

“ Oh, sir, I swear to you, I kept my word,” he cries, “ but — 
but — oh, Mr. Campbell, I spared you in mercy that dreadful 
sight ! You would not have known her, you could not have 
borne to see how death had effaced her beauty. You must re- 
member her as she was — ^not as she is.” 

Lawrence Campbell’s despairing moan is echoed by a low and 
fainter one. 

Vera’s dark eyes open slowly, her lips part in faint, shivering 
sighs. 

“ Quick — the wine ! ’ exclaims the sexton. “ Pour a few drops 
between her lips.” 

Lawrence Campbell obeys gladly, and Vera’s lips part thirstily 
to receive the potent medicine. She lifts her white hand to her 
brow as if to clear away the shadows that cloud her brain. 

“ I have been asleep, and my dreams were strange and wild,” 
she murmurs. “I thought I had found my father. You, sir, 
look at me lovingly and kindly. Can it be ” 

“ That I am your father — yes, my precious Vera,” he answers, 
pressing a father’s holy kiss on the sweet, wistful lips. 

Her dark, dreamy eyes look searchingly up into the handsome, 
noble face. 

“ Ah, I am so glad,” she murmurs, “and you are good and true 
and noble. I cannot understand why you went away from mam- 
ma, but I can tell by your face that you are not the bad and 
wicked wretch that woman pretended.” 

“ Mrs. Cleveland?” he asks, a spasm of rage and hatred dis- 
torting his palhd features. 

“ Perhaps it wiU be best not to excite the yOung lady by talk- 
ing to her just at first,” the sexton interposes, anxiously and re- 
spectfully. “ She must be very weak, having taken no nourish- 
ment for so long. I will go out and prepare a little warm broth 
for her.” 

“You must lie still and rest, darling,” Lawrence Campbell 
whispers, pouring a little more of the stimulant between her pale 
lips— paler now from exhaustion than they were when she lay 


COUNTESS VERA. 


25 


sleeping in the coffin, and with a faint sigh of assent she closes 
lier eyes and lies silent, while the sexton goes out on his kindly 
meant errand. 

The moments pass, Lawrence Campbell sits still with his head 
bowed moodily on his hand, his thoughts strangely blended, 
joy for his daughter’s recovery, despairing grief for his wife’s 
loss, and unutterable hate for Marcia Cleveland all mixed inex- 
tricably together. All that he has lost by that woman’s perjury 
rushes bitterly over him. In the stillness, broken only by the 
crackle of the fresh coals upon the fire, and the monotonous tick- 
ing of the clock upon the mantel, he broods over liis wrongs 
until they assume gigantic proportions. 

And Vera — so strangely rescued from the coffin and the grave 
— she is veiy silent also, but none the less is her brain active and 
her mind busy. One by one she is gathering up the links of 
memory. 

Her strange marriage, her mother’s death, her terrible defeat 
in the triumph she had anticipated over the Clevelands — all come 
freshly over her memory, with that crowning hour in which 
wounded to the heart and filled with a deadly despair, she had 
crept away to die because she could not endure the humiliation 
and shame of the knowledge she had gained. 

“ I remember it all now; I could not decide upon the right vial, 
and by chance I took the wrong one. It was the sleeping potion. 
How long have I been asleep, and how came I here?” 

Unclosing her languid eyes, she repeats the question aloud: 

“Father, how came I here?” 

He starts, nervously, at the unexpected question. 

“ My dear, you must not ask questions,” he answers. “At least 
— not yet.” 

“But just this one, father. It keeps ringing itself in my head, 
I am filled with wonder. I drank a vial of what I imagined 
contained death, and lay down on my bed to die. But I only 
slept, and my dreams were wild. Then I awoke in this strange room , 
and saw you looking at me so kindly, and I knew you in my 
heart for my father. My wonder is so great that I cannot rest. 
Suspense is worse than knowledge. Only tell me how I came to 
be here?” 

He looks at the beautiful, eloquent lips and pleading eyes, look- 
ing so dark with the purple shadows around them, and the pale, 
pale face. 

“ I must not tell her the truth,” he said to himself. “She looks 
too slight and frail to bear the shock of hearing it. She need not 
ever know that she had been buried alive, and rescued out of the 
blackness of the grave. The horror of it would be enough to un- 
hinge her reason.” 

“The last that I remember,” she continues, “I was lying on 
my bed at Mrs. Cleveland’s, waiting for death to come. I awoke 
here in this strange place. How did it happen?” 

“ I had you conveyed here in your sleep,” he answers. “My 
dear, I see that you have all of woman’s proverbial curiosity. 
But there is no mystery here. The simple truth is, that I went 
to i\Irs. Cleveland’s to seek my wife and child. I found that your 


26 


COUNTESS VERA, 


mother was dead, and you were locked in a strange, narcotic 
sleep, almost as deep as death. I had you conveyed here, and 
watched over you until you awakened from your long slumber. 
That is all, my dear little daughter. Now, can you rest satisfied?” 

The dark eyes seek his, still wistfully, and with dawning ten- 
derness. 

“ Father, you do not know how I love the sound of your voice,” 
she murmurs. “It does not excite nor weary me. It is full of 
soothing, calming power. It falls on my thirsty, yearning heart 
like the dew upon flowers. I wish that you would talk to me. 
Nothing you can say would weary me so much as my own tumul- 
tuous thoughts.” 

He sighs, and smooths back the soft waves of gold that stray 
over the blue- veined temples. 

“ What shall I talk of, little one?” he inquii-es. 

“ Tell me where you have been all these long years, father, and 
why you never came for mamma and I when you were so un- 
happy?” she sighs. 

Tears that do not shame his manhood crowd into his dark, sad 
eyes. 

“ Vera, you will hate me when I tell you that it was a mad, 
unreasoning jealousy, aroused and fostered by Marcia Cleveland, 
that led me to desert my innocent wife, and you, my little child, 
before you were born,” he answers, heavily. 

Vera’s dark eyes flash with ominous light. She lies silent a 
moment, brooding over her mother’s terrible wrongs. 

“ I have been a lonely wanderer from land to land ever since,’ 
he goes on, slowly. “ God only knows what I suffered, Vera, for 
I could never tear the image of my wife from my breast, although 
I believed her false and vile. But I was too proud to go back to 
her. I never knew how she was breaking her heart in silent sor- 
row for me, her life made doubly wretched by the abuses of the 
false sister who hated her because I loved her. At last I was re- 
called from my wanderings. I had fallen heir to a title I had 
never dreamed of inheriting, and which only filled me with bit- 
terness. I reflected that, but for Edith’s falsity, she might have 
been my countess; as fair a lady as ever reigned in my ancestral 
halls.” 

“Poor mamma, leading her slavish life in Mrs. Cleveland’s 
house,” the girl murmurs, in vain regret. 

“ Poor martju: to the sins of others,” the man echoes, heavily. 

“ Yet you came back at last,” Vera murmurs. “Had you re- 
pented of your hasty desertion ?” 

“ I had learned the truth, Vera, through the dying confession 
of Mrs. Cleveland’s weak tool. I had learned how terribly I had 
been deceived, and that I had deserted my angel wife for naught. 
Vera, did she curse my memory when she lay dying of a broken 
heart?” 

“ She never named you either in praise or blame, father. I had 
some vague impression that you were dead. I knew no better 
until I overheard Mrs. Cleveland telling some one that you had 
deserted my mother before I was born, and that you were a low. 


COUNTESS YEHA, 27 

drunken, brutal wretch, who had abused and maltreated her 
from the first.” 

“ Oh, my God, my God ! that such demons should walk the 
earth !” the man groans through his clenched teeth. 

He rises and walks up and down the floor, struggling with his 
strong, overmastering agitation. 

“Vera, we three — you and I, and our lost loved one — have 
been wronged as, it seems to me, never mortals were before. My 
heart is on fire with rage and hate for the devil who has so 
blasted our lives. It seems to me that I can never rest until I 
strike back. Vera, shall we not avenge ourselves?” 

His dark, passionate eyes fill with the fire that rages in his 
soul. Vera looks up at him, half-fearfully. 

“How, father?” she queries, slowly. 

The heavy gloom deepens in his night-black eyes. 

“ How — I cannot tell!” he says, hoarsely. “ But I will bide my 
time. I will wait and watch. Edith’s wrongs shall not go un- 
avenged.” 

The beautiful young face on the pillow softens and saddens. 

“Mother was very gentle and forgiving,” she murmurs, “ She 
would have said, leave it to Heaven.” 

“She was an angel — I am but human,” he answers. “ Vera, 
we must work together for vengeance. The time will come 
when we will make Marcia Cleveland bite the dust — when she 
shall curse the stars that shone over her ill-fated birth.” 

So the wronged man raves, and Vera’s passionate heart is 
kindled into flames by his burning eloquence. She is with him 
heart and soul, loyal to the core of her woman’s heart. 

Strange, that when she tells him the story of her short, sad 
life she should hold one secret back. The words die on her 
white lips when she tries to tell him. A passionate shame fills 
her heart. Oh, the bitter pain, the deep humihation of the 
thought that she is Leslie Noble’s wife. Leslie Noble whom she 
scorns and despises. Have they told her father the truth? she 
wonders. 

No, for presently he says, tenderly: 

“ Do not think that all my thoughts are given up to vengeance, 
Vera. I shall care for you very tenderly, darling. And if you 
should ever marry, I pray God that your wedded happiness may 
not be blighted by such a terrible wrong as mine.” 

Her heart gives a great throb ot relief. He does not know. 
He never shall know by her telling, she resolves. 

The day comes soon when they kneel hand in hand by Edith’s 
grave to bid her good-bye before departing for England’s shore. 

“Edith, my darling,” he whispers to the dead heart below, 
“the human vampire has escaped me this time. She has fled 
from my vengeance, and left no trace behind her. But let her 
beware, for I but bide my time. The bloodhounds of hate are 
howling behind her, and sooner or later she will be brought to 
bay. Farewell, my murdered darling. Remember that I only 
live to avenge your wrongs, and to protect your child!” 


COUNTESS VERA. 




CHAPTER IX. 

No one had created such a sensation in London for several 
years as did Lady Vera, the Earl of Fairvale’s only child, when 
she was presented at court. She was just nineteen, and a perfect 
beauty. She was more American than English in style-j-tall and 
slenderly formed, with a stately grace all her own, with large, 
dark eyes, and black brows and lashes, with hair of a magnifi- 
cent, dark-golden shade, and well-formed, aristocratic features. 
Then, as the crowning charm to her brilliant loveliness, she had 
inherited from her English ancestry a dazzling complexion of 
lilies and roses. 

People who studied and admired Lady Vera most, said that 
they could not quite imderstand the expression of her face. It 
was too intense for one so young. It was full of passion, tem- 
pered by the gravest thought. 

The young English girls had dimples and smiles for everyone, 
but Lady Vera was different. She had the sweetest, most radi- 
ant smile in the world when you saw it, but that was so very 
seldom. She seemed to be thinking all the time — ^thinking 
deeply, even when she danced or sang, or conversed. And her 
favorite flowers were the beautiful, velvety pansies, whose very 
emblem is thought. 

Yet when you looked into the Earl of Fairvale’s face, you 
ceased to wonder at his daughter. The shadow on her face was 
reflected from the cloud on his. His dark, handsome face was 
a study. Where Lady Vera seemed to be thinking, his expres- 
sion was that of one brooding — brooding aU the while on one 
subject, and that not a pleasant one. 

It was with some difficulty that he met the requirements of 
society. When spoken to suddenly sometimes, he would start 
and look bewildered as if his thoughts were far away. Ladies 
admired him immensely, although he was very inattentive to 
them. The dark, sad, melancholy face had a peculiar charm for 
them. They said he reminded them of Byron’s heroes. 

The earl was very fond of his daughter, and very careful of her. 
His eyes followed her everywhere, but their expression was 
always sad and melancholy. No one knew that every time he 
looked at her, he remembered how he had wronged her mother, 
and that 'ds heart was breaking with remorse and grief, as well 
as with the consuminf^ fires of a baffled revenge. 

His story was not .^nerally known. He had succeeded to the 
Ea^xdom of Faiiwale through a series of unexpected deaths, and 
though everyone knew of har» i^ome Lawrence Campbell’s acces- 
sions, little was known of him 'personally beyond the rumor that 
he had married an American' lady, who had died and left him 
one only child, his beautiful and worshiped Vera. 

Lady Vera had many admirers. Aside from her personal 
charms, the fact that she would succeed to the title and estates 
of Fairvale, cast a flattering prestige around her. 

She was the same to all who came to woo — cool, courteous, 
gently indifferent. After awhile they began to say that the earl’s 
daughter was very proud. Ordinary people were not to her 


COUNTESS VERA, 


29 


fancy, evidently. She must be waiting for a duhe or a prince. 
Poor Lady Vera! Who was to know the bitter secret, the 
ceaseless dread that ached in the fair breast, that rose and fell be- 
neath the knots of velvety pansies that were her simple and fav- 
orite adornment? 

Vera has seen and learned a great deal since that night when 
her father’s mad frenzy had been the means of saving her from 
the horrors of a dreadful death. 

She has traveled, she has had masters and governesses; luxuries 
of which she never even faintly dreamed, have surrounded her 
and become daily necessities. Pleasure has wooed her softly to 
its flowery paths, love has been lavishly laid at her feet. But 
through it all a loathing remembrance of Leslie Noble has poison- 
ed her peace. 

“Where is he? Does he know where I am? Will he ever come 
to claim me?” she often asks herself, never dreaming that he of 
whose coming she is so terribly afraid believes her dead, and that 
he has erected a costly marble monument over the spot where 
her remains are supposed to rest. 

Her father’s mistaken kindness has kept from her the knowl- 
edge of her deadly peril and her opportune rescue, little dream- 
ing in what an untoward hour the startling truth shall come to 
her. 

And she, in her sensitive pride, has held her peace over that 
ill-fated marriage by the bedside of her dying mother — the poor, 
heart-broken mother who had erred so fatally, when, with weak, 
human foresight she had tried to plan for the future well-being 
of her helpless child. 

“ Oh, mamma, dearest,” she moans, when alone in her silken 
loudoir, she recalls the wretched past, “how terribly blind and 
mistaken you were. Oh, to be free from these fetters that chafe 
and fret and gall so terribly!” 

“ Shall you never marry, Vera?” her father asks her one day. 

It is the day after she has refused Lord Greyhurst, one of the 
finest and wealthiest young noblemen in London. 

The deep color flows into the girl’s fair cheeks. 

“ I think not, father,” she answers, gravely. “ I‘have no wish 
to marry. I have never met anyone t at I could love.” 

Earl Fairvale is well pleased. 

“I am glad to hear you s ^ that, my dear,” he answers. “ I 
have no wish to lose my dan k a ter. And, after all, so much sor- 
row comes from love, one is best without it.” 

Lady Vera is very glad to hear him talk so. He will never 
urge her to marry, and she may keep her secret always — always, 
unless— AreaAQd. possibility — Leslie Noble should return to claim 
her. 

“ But he will not. Why should he ? He never cared for me. 
Yet how strange that he should have let my father take me 
away without one word. He must indeed have been glad to be 
lad of me,” she muses. 

The earl and his daughter are staying with Lady Clive for the 
“ season.” She is an Amv3rican, and the daughter of a famous 
American general. She is very happily married to Sir Harry 


80 


COUNTESS VEEA. 


Clive, baronet. Loving everything American with intensest 
love, she falls an instant victim to Lady Vera’s charms. 

“ Your mother was an American — so am I,” she says, vivaci- 
ously; “ so I claim you on that score. Do you like England, 
Lady Vera, and English people ?” 

“Yes,” Vera answers, in her grave way. 

“ And,” Lady Clive goes on, in her bright, airy fashion, “do 
you intend to marry an Englishman or an American ?” 

“ I shall never marry at all,” Lady Vera says, with a face of 
extreme disgust. 

“ Never! Ah, my dear, you are too young to decide such a 
momentous question. Only wait and see,” cries Lady Clive, who 
has a match laid out in her mind for Vera, but who is far too 
wise to give her a hint of it. 

“ I shall never marry,” Vera repeats, calmly. “ I do not even 
like to think of such things as love and marriage. Dear Lady 
Clive, let us talk of something more interesting. You promised 
to take me into the nursery, and show me your little children — 
did you not ?” 

“Yes, and we will go now,” her friend answers, leading the 
way; but to herself she says, wonderingly: “What a strange 
girl. At her age I did not think a set of noisy children more in- 
teresting than love and marriage.” 

The grave young face grows brighter than Lady Clive has ever 
seen it as Vera watches the beautiful little children at tboir play- 
ful sports. She even smiles when they caress her, and gives them 
the flowers from her bosom in payment for kisses. 

“ She loves children dearly,” Lady Clive says to herself, well 
pleased. “How strange that she should be so set against mar- 
riage. She is an odd girl, but I think I shall live to see her. 
change her mind.” 


CHAPTER X. 

Lady Vera having gained the entree to the nursery, pays it 
daily visits, always flnding herself vociferously welcomed by the 
three small dwellers therein. 

And one day she flnds the youthful trio in a hubbub of excite- 
ment. 

“ Our uncle from America is coming over to visit us, ’’ they 
triumphantly announce to their friend. 

“You seem to be glad,” Lady Vera answers, kindly. 

“ Oh, we are,” they laugh. “ Aren’t you glad, too, Vera?” 

“ I do not know. I do not like Americans much,” says Lady 
Vera, with a distinct remembrance of the Clevelands and Leslie 
Noble. 

“Oh, but you will be sure to like Uncle Phil. He is awfully 
jolly, and he is a soldier, too. He has a sword and a gun and 
has promised to teach me to shoot. I am going to be a soldier, 
too,” cries out Mark, the second son. 

“And when is this terrible soldier coming?” Lady Vera in- 
quires, with languid interest. 

“ We do not know exactly, but very soon,” they tell her. “He 


COUNTESS VERA. 


31 


came about this time last year. Mamma had a letter from him 
this morning.” 

“ You have not told me his name yet,” Lady Vera continues. 

“ He is Captain Philip Lockhart, and his father, our own 
grandpapa, is General Lockhart,” answers Hal, the heir, while 
little Dot claps her small hands gleefully, crying out: 

“ Uncle Phil will bring us lots of^bu’ful playt’ings from New 
York. He always does.” 

But though “Uncle Phil” remains the favorite topic of 
the nursery for several days. Lady Clive quite forgets to tell her 
guest that she expects her brother. 

Lady Vera scarcely gives it a thought. In the expected arriv- 
al of Captain Lockhart she takes not the slightest interest. 

So it happened that when Vera runs into the nursery one even- 
ing — having promised the children a peep at her ball dress — she 
oomes upon an unexpected tableau. A man on his knees, ham- 
mering at the lid of a big box, three hopefuls gathered around 
him, and chattering like magpies; the prim, white-aproned nurse 
vainly endeavoring to command silence. 

Before Vera can beat her instantly -attempted retreat, the little 
“ Philistines are upon her.” 

“Here she is,” they cry. “This is Vera, of whom we have 
been telling you. Isn’t she pretty. Uncle Phil?’ 

“ But she doesn’t like Americans,” adds one enfant terrible. 

“ I am sorry for that,” says Captain Lockhart, rising hastily, 
and giving Lady Vera a soldier’s stately bow. “Cannot you 
persuade her that I am of some other nationality, my dears?” 

The ease and lightness of his words and manner car^ off some 
of the embarrassment of the meeting. Lady Vera gives him a 
bow, and a slight little smile, sweet and transient. 

“I am sorry to have interrupted you,” she says. “ I am go- 
ing now, directly.” 

But her swift, upward glance has given her a glimpse of a tall, 
soldierly form, and a handsome-featured face, with dark-blue 
eyes, and dark-brown mustache, while short, curUng locks of 
deepest brown cluster about a finely-shaped head— “every inch a 
soldier.” , 

Our hero, on his part, sees a vision of dazzling beauty — dark 
eyes, golden tresses, scarlet lips, a slim yet daintily-rounded 
figure in costly lace, with knots of purple, golden-hearted pansies. 
Around the slender, stately column of the white tliroat a neck- 
lace of pansies formed of dark, purple amethysts with diamond 
centers radiating fire — a birthday gift from her father. 

“ Pray do not go,” Captain Lockhart says, persuasively, with 
the winning tongue of a soldier. “The children have been 
eagerly expecting you. Do not damp their pleasure. Rather let 
me withdraw.” 

“No, no,” Lady Vera says, hastily, as he crosses to the door, 
her haughtiness melting for the moment under his chivalrous 
manner. “ We will both stay— that is, I can only give the chil- 
dren a moment. I am going to a ball.” 

“ So am I, directly, with my sister and Sir Harry. It is very 


82 


COUNTESS VERA. 


strange Nella did not tell me she had a young lady guest. I am,” 
smiling under the brown mustache, “puzzled over your name.” 

“ It IS Vera Campbell,” she answers, with a slight flush. 

“ Vera,” pipes the prim nurse from her corner, obse- 
quiously. 

“Lady Vera,” he says, with a bow and smile; then: “Thank 
you for the favor. Mine is Philip Lockhart.” 

“ Captain Phil,” shouts Mark, anxious that his uncle shall 
abate no jot of his soldierly dignity. 

“ He has brought us a great big box,” Dot confides to Lady 
Vera, triun^hantly at this moment. 

“Which I will leave him to open. My maid has not finished 
me yet,” fibs Vera, and so makes her escape, leaving Captain Phil 
to the tender mercies of his small relatives, who give liim no 

E eace until the heavy box is unpacked, and its contents paraded 
efore their dazzled and rejoicing sight. 

Meanwhile Vera secures her opera-cloak, and goes down to the 
drawing-room, where the earl and Sir Harry are waiting for the 
ladies. 

“ Nella will be here in a moment,” explains Sir Harry. “She 
has gone to hurry up her brother, over whom the children are 
having no end of a jollification. Oh, I forgot, you may not 
linow whom I am talking about. Lady Clive’s brother arrived 
this evening, and will accompany us to Lady Ford’s ball.” 

Vera bows silently, and presently Lady Clive sails in, proudly, 
with the truant in tow. Evening dress is marvelously becom- 
ing to the handsome soldier. Involuntarily Vera thinks of Sir 
Launcelot: 

“ The goodliest man that ever among ladies sat in hall, 

And noblest.” 


“ Lady Vera, this is my brother. Captain Lockhart,” Lady Clive 
begins, with conscious pride; then pau«es, disconcerted by the 
“ still, soft smile ” creeping over either face. 

“ We have met before,” Lady Vera explains, with, for her, un- 
usual graciousness. “ Met before! Not in America?” cried Lady 
Clive, bewildered. 

“ Oh, no,” her brother answers, and Lady Vera adds, smiling; 
“ In the nursery, ten minutes ago.” 

So there is only the earl to introduce, and then they are whirled 
away to Lady Ford’s, where Captain Lockhart meets a score of 
last season’s friends, and to the surprise of Lady Vera, who is 
prejudiced against almost anything American, he develops some 
of the graces of a society man, even playing and singing superbly 
in a full, rich tenor voice. 

“Yet, why should he have selected that old, old song: ‘The 
Banks of Allan Water?” Lady Vera asks herself, scornfully, “ and 
when he sang: 

“ ‘ For his bride a soldier sought her,’ 
why should he have looked so straight at mef It was not an im- 
pei-tinent look, I own, but why should he have looked at me at 
all?” 


But even to her own heart. Lady Vera will not own that her 
great vexation is directed against herself because she has blushed 


COUNTESS VERA. 


3« 


vividly crimson under that one look from Captain Lockhart’s 
blue eyes, while her heart has beat so strangely — with annoy- 
ance, she thinks. 

“ 1 foresee that I shall hate this American soldier,” she muses, 
“ and no wonder at all when I shall be forced to see him every 
day. I wish now that we had not accepted Lady Clive’s invita- 
tion for the London season.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

The day after Lady Ford’s ball dawns cheerlessly. It is cool, 
and the air is full of floating mists. The gentlemen determine 
to go out anyhow. The ladies elect to remain at home. The 
glowing fire in the hbrary has more charms than the bleak, 
spring air. 

“ I am not surprised at Nella,” says Captain Lockhart, leisurely 
buttoning his overcoat. ^^She was raised in America, and our 
ladies do not walk much. But I have been told that English 
ladies walk every morning, whether rain or shine. Are you 
false to the tradition. Lady Vera?” 

The color flies into her cheek at his quizzical glance, but she 
will not tell him what she sees he does not know — that she has 
been raised in America, too. 

“ I suppose so,” she says, a little shortly, in answer to liis ques- 
tion. 

“ Suppose you come with us for a turn around the square, my 
dear?” suggests the earl. 

“ So I will,” answers Lady Vera, determined to have Captain 
Lockhart see that she is quite English in her habits. 

She comes down in a moment covered almost to the pink tips 
of her ears in rich velvet. To her dismay Earl Fairvale strolls 
forward in a fit of absent-mindedness with Sir Harry, leaving her 
to be accompanied by the American soldier. She sees no other 
course but to accept the situation. 

“ It is only for a few minutes at the worst,” she thinks to her- 
self. 

So she walks on by his side, looking so pretty with tho nipping 
wind kissing her cheeks into a scarlet glow, that Captain Lock- 
hart can scarcely keep the admiration out of his eyes. 

“The loveliest girl I have ever seen in my Hfe,” he mentally 
decides. “ But, by Jovel as cold and proud as an iceberg!” 

“ So you do not like Americans?” he says to her, regretfully, 
as they turn a corner. 

“No,” curtly. 

“ Ah, but. Lady Vera, is that fair?” plaintively. “ You do not 
know us, yet you condemn us without a hearing. Mere English 
prejudice — is it not?” 

She looks around at the handsome face, full of fire and life, 
and the sparkling blue eyes. The thoughtful gravity on tho 
lovely face grows deeper. The dark eyes fiash. 

“ Captain Lockhart, you are talking of what you do not under 
stand,” she says, impatiently. 

“ I beg your pardon, Lady Vera,” he answers, flushing, “ I spoke 


H4 


COUNTESS VERA. 


from the merest impulse. I thought — since you are so very 
young — ^you could not know my country well.” 

Lady Vera blushes, but holds her peace. Of course, somebody 
will tell him her story soon — tell him that her mother was 
American, and that she herself had spent seventeen years in his 
own native land. At least he shall not hear it from her. She has 
a vague notion that it would please him to know it, that the blue 
eyes whose sparMe she has already learned to know, would light 
with pleasure at the knowledge. 

Those eyes, how bright and keen they are. They seem to read 
one’s thoughts. Lady Vera finds her gaze drooping from them as 
they never drooped before mortal man’s before. Why? she asks 
herself. 

“ It is because he is so bold,” she decides, vexedly. “He seems 
to be trying to read"one’s inmost thoughts. I will show him that 
I am not afraid of liim.” 

Thereupon she hfts the dark eyes bravely to give him a cool 
society stare, but in an instant they waver and fall before the 
glance they have surprised in his. Just so the blue eyes had 
turned on her last night, when he sang: 

“ On the banks of Allan Water, 

When the sweet spring tide did fall, 

Was the miller’s lovely daughter, 

Fairest of them all 1 
For his bride a soldier sought her, 

And a winning tongue had he, 

On the banks of Allan W ater 
None so gay as she.” 

“ Why do you stare at me sof’ she breaks out, angry with her- 
self, and with him. 

He flushes, startled by her hrusquerie. 

“ I beg your pardon — I did not mean' to be rude,” he answers, 
quietly. “ But, Lady Vera, a man must be blind not to look at 
you.'’’ 

“Why?” she asks, still sharply, 

“ Because I think God made all beautiful things for the pleas- 
ure of men’s eyes,” he answers, firmly, yet respectfully. 

“ Impertinent I” Vera says to herself, indignantly, and looks 
another way. 

“ Do you lay an embargo on my eye-sight as far as you are con- 
cerned, Lady Vera?” he continues, after a moment. 

“ Yes,” she replies, with her head still tmned away. 

“Then I shall try to obey you,” he answers, calmly. “ I will 
not even see you when I can help it, but you must forgive me 
for saying that if I should never see you again I shall never for- 
get a single hne of your face.” 

“ I hope he is not making love to me,” Lady Vera says to her- 
self, uneasily, then laughing at herself. “ Of course not; I dare 
say he has a sweetheart in his own land, some dear, sweet, an- 
gelic creature, like Ivy Cleveland, perhaps.” 

They speak no more, and when they have gone once around 
the square, Captain Lockhart leaves the earl’s daughter at the 


COUNTESS VEUA. 


35 


door with a low bow. She goes into the house, her cheeks ting- 
ling with an odd kind of shame. 

“I was rude, ‘perhaps,’'' she thinks, a little uneasily. “ What 
must he think of English manners ? But then why did he look 
at me so ? I felt so — so strangely.” 

To Lady Clive, who is trifling over a bit of fancy work, she 
says, presently: 

“ Why did you not tell me you expected your brother ?” 

Lady Clive glances up under her long lashes at the flushed 
face, a gleam of mischief in the blue eyes so much like her 
brother’s. 

“ It was just like me — to forget it,” she exclaims. But then 
I knew you would not be interested. And, besides, I knew he 
would not be in your way. PMl is only a plain, blimt soldier — 
not at all a ladies’ man.” 

“ I thought he seemed like that last night,” Lady Vera answers, 
turning the leaves of a book very fast, and not knowing how am- 
biguous is her answer. 

“ Like rohat ? ” her friend inquires. 

“ A ladies’ man,” Vera answers. 

“ Did you? Oh, yes, when he is thrown among them he tries 
to make himself agreeable, but he does not fall in love, he does 
not run after them. When he was with us last season. Lady Eva 
Clarendon made a dead set at him. Phil was very civil at first — 
sang with her, danced with her, played the agreeable in his care- 
less way, you know. But when he found she was losing her 
heart to him, he drew off, terrified — seemed to think she would 
marry him, willy-nilly — and went away to Italy, then back 
home.” 

“ I should have thought it would have been a grand match for 
him," Lady Vera answers, with unconscious emphasis of the pro- 
noun. 

Lady Clive’s head goes up, slightly. 

“ For my brother? Not at all. Lady Vera,” she answers, with 
a slight touch of stiffness in her voice. “ Pliilip met the Claren- 
dons on equal ground. He is wealthy — that is the first and 
greatest thing with people, you know— our great-uncle left him 
a fortune. Next, he is well-born, and the general, our father, is 
famous over two continents. As for Lady Eva’s title, that would 
not weigh a feather with my brother. He comes from a land, 
you know, where native worth and nobility take precedence over 
aU.” 

And having thus blandly squelched Lady Vera’s arrogance, the 
American lady bends smilingly to her lace work again. Lady 
Vera only smiles. She cannot feel offended. 

“ I deserved it all,” she thinks, soberly to herself. ‘‘Oh! why 
do I suffer my hatred of the Clevelands and Leslie Noble to make 
me venomous and unjust to every American I meet? I have of- 
fended this kind friend of mine, and been rude to her brother all 
through my spite against those wicked people. I wish he would 
forgive those ridiculous words I said to him. Not look at me, 
indeed. How silly! He will think me wondrous vain.” 


8G 


COUNTESS VEIU. 


But Captain Lockhart does not forget. When they meet at 
dinner again Vera glances at him sliyly several times across the 
silver and crystal and flowers, but the blue eyes are always on 
his plate, or on someone else’s face — never on hers. What though 
she is lovely as a dream in pale-blue satin and gleaming pearls? 
Captain Lockhart is serenely unconscious of the color of her 
robe, or the half-repentance in her starry eyes. 

“ I cannot blame him,” she admits to herself, “ I acted like a 
silly child.” 

The days go by. Captain Lockhart and the earl’s daughter are 
merely civil — they seldom seem to see each other. Each absorbed 
in the engagements of the gay season, each drifting further 
apart in the whirl, there is no time for pardon or reconciliation. 
Lady Vera finds no time for the nursery now save when the 
soldier is out. Yet she is ever listening for one step, and the 
color flies into her cheek when she hears it. 

Lady Clive is perplexed and sorry because her brother and her 
favorite do not take to each other. 

“I thought they seemed made for each other,” she complains, 
to Sir Harry. “And I thought I had managed them so cleverly. 
But they scarcely seem conscious of each other’s existence.” 

“I hope you are not turning match-maker, Nella,” Sir HaiTy 
Clive replies, laughing. 

Earl Fairvale sees nothing. Day by day he grows more 
gloomy, more self-absorbed, and goes less into societ}'^. The on- 
ly interest in his hfe outside of his adored daughter, centers in 
the occasional letters that reach him from America. But after 
each one he grows more sad and gloomy, losing flesh and color 
daily. Only Vera knows that the vengeance that is the object of 
liis life is so long delayed that the strain on his mind is killing 
him. For though the most skilled detectives in the world are 
watching and working, they can find no trace of the secure hid- 
ing-place where Marcia Cleveland dwells untroubled by the venge- 
ance from which she has fled. 

Lady Vera’s roses pale when she sees how her father is break- 
ing down — how the mind is wearing out the body, even as the 
sword wears out the scabbard. 

“Father, even if you found out her hiding-place, what could 
you do? What form could your revenge take?” she asks him, 
mournfully, as she has done many times before. 

‘ ‘ I cannot tell — but some way would be opened. I should find 
some vulnerable point at wliich to strike,” he answers, moodily. 

She twines her fair, white arms about his neck, and presses her 
fresh young lips to his clouded brow. 

“Father, this long brooding over your revenge, this hatred, 
nourished in your heart, is sapping your life,” she sighs. “I beg 
you, for my sake, to give it up, dear father. Give it up, and 
leave it to Heaven!” 

He looks at the beautiful, tearful eyes and the sweet face, pale 
now with its sorrow. 

“ Vera, you come to me witn your mother’s face, your mother’s 
voice, and ask me not to avenge her ruined life, her broken heart, 
her mournful death,” he answers, bitterly. “ Child, you know 


COUNTESS VERA, 


37 


not what you aslc. What can you know of the pangs I have en- 
dured ? Have you forgotten, too, the indignities heaped upon 
you in your young, defenseless life ?” 

The dark eyes filled with smouldering wrath. 

*‘No, father, never!” she cries; “ but it is all past. Mother is 
safe in Heaven, you and I are together. Let us forget those 
wicked ones. Surely God will punish them for the ruin they 
have wrought.” 

“I will not listen to you, Yera,” he says, putting her from him, 
resolutely. “ I have sworn to break Marcia Cleveland’s heart if it 
be not made of stone. If I fail — listen to me, darling — if I fail, 
I shall bequeath my revenge and my oath to you in dying.” 

She pales and shivers through all her slight young frame, as if 
some dim foreboding came to her of the nearing future — that 
future in whose black shadow her feet already tread, it comes so 
near. 

“I shall bequeath it to you,” Earl Fairvale repeats, gloomily; 
^ ‘ you wull lack no means to accomplish it if only you can find 
out the serpent’s lair. You will be Countess of Fairvale. You 
will inherit great wealth, and an enormous rent-roll. With 
wealth you can do almost anything. If I fail you will take up 
the work where it dropped from my hand in dying — you, Vera, 
will avenge the dead.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

One of Earl Fairvale’s favorite amusements was riding on 
horseback. He had a passion for fast horses. He might often 
be seen mounted on some spirited and superb animal, riding in 
the “Row” by his daughter’s side, who was herself a finished 
horsewoman. 

Sometimes he drove a fom*-m-hand. Often he might be seen 
tearing along at a wild and break-neck pace on some fiery-looking 
horse that ordinary people would shudder to look at. But the 
earl did not know the name of fear. He seemed to take a reck- 
less delight and gloomy satisfaction in those wild, John Gilpin- 
hke races, at which others trembled with dread. He laughed at 
the fears of his daughter and her friends, and disregarded their 
entreaties. 

Sir HaiTy Clive came home one day, his fine face clouded with 
anxiety. 

“ The earl has bought a new horse,” he said. “ It is a beauti- 
ful creature, black as night, glossy as satin, clean-limbed, superb, 
but with the most vicious eye conceivable, and a fiery temper. 
They call him King.” 

“I suppose there is no danger to the eail,” said his wife. “ He 
has a marvelous control over his horses. They seem to obey the 
least touch of his hand or sound of his voice.” 

“ This animal he has now is not like to be tamed so easily,” 
Sir Harry answers, gravely. “ It is said that he threw his last 
master and killed him. Indeed, Nell a, you could not imagine a 
more devilish-looking creature than this beautiful King. I tol<| 


88 CO UNTES8 TEH A . 

Fair vale that its true name ought to be the Black Devil, for I am 
sure he looks like one.” 

Lady Clive shudders. 

“ Has the earl tried him yet ?” she inquires. 

“He started out upon him an hour ago,” Sir Harry answers. 
“ There were a score of us who tried to persuade him not to 
mount the fiery creature. But he laughed at our fears, and went 
off in gallant style. Bung tried to prevent him from mounting, 
but he succeeded in first-rate style. Yet I doubt,” gloomily, “ if 
he ever returns alive.”' 

“What will Lady Vera say? She has been so anxious over 
him, so nervous of late,” sighs Lady Clive. 

“You need not tell her,” he answers. “ No need to alarm her 
needlessly. After all, our forebodings may be vain. Fairvale is 
the most fearless and accomplished rider I ever saw. He may 
even conquer King.” 

But even then the loud and startling peal of the door-bell 
rings like a wild alarm through the house. 

******** 

Sir Harry’s fears have had only too good a foundation. They 
have picked up the earl from the hard and fiinty pavement, where 
the maddened brute had flung him, and brought him home bleed- 
ing, senseless — mortally injured, all the surgeons agree. 

And Lady Vera? The shock of the awful tidings had almost 
rent her heart in twain. Passing from one swoon into another, 
she lies on her couch, white and horror-stricken, shuddering 
sighs heaving her breast. At last they come to tell her that the 
awful stupor is over. He is conscious, and has asked for her. 

“ How long ?” she asks, faintly, for they have told her that his 
hours are numbered. 

“ Calm yourself, for he cannot bear the least excitement.” 

But when Vera goes into his presence, and sees him lyin^ so 
marble-white, with the black hair tossed back from the high, 
pale brow, and the eager, asking eyes fixed upon her anguished 
face, a great, choking knot rises into her throat — it seems as if 
she will choke with the violence of her repressed emotion. 

“ Father!” she wails, with a world of grief in that one word, 
and falls on her knees by his bed-side. 

“I am going from you, dear,” he answers, with the strange 
calmness of the dying. “ The black river of death yawns at my 
feet. The pale and mystic boatman is waiting to row me over. 
Already the cold waves splash over me. Vera!” 

“ Father,’* she answers, placing her hand in the cold one feebly 
groping for it. 

His h^ollow, dark eyes roll around the room. 

“ Are we alone?” 

“Alone,” she answers, for all the kindly watchers have with- 
drawn, leaving father and child to the sweet solace of this last 
moment together, undisturbed fey alien eyes. 

The dark eyes seek hers — sad, wistful, full of vain remorse. 

“ Vera, I was reckless, mad, defiant of fate. I have thrown 


COUNTESS VERA, 39 

my life away, my poor, blighted life. Can you forgive me, mv 
poor, orphaned girl?” 

Only her stifled sobs answer him. 

“ I did not mean it, Vera. I was tormented by my burning 
thoughts, and I only sought diversion. I thought I could hold 
the fiery brute in check. But the devil threw me. No matter; 
I am to blame. I was too reckless. But you forgive me, darling?” 

She kisses him because she cannot speak. 

“ I have lost my life,’” he murmurs, sadly; “ lost it before my 
work on earth was done. My daughter, you recall what I said 
to you so short a while ago?” 

She shivers, and lifts her dark, foreboding eyes to his face. 

“Yes, father.” 

“Bring me the Bible from yonder stand, dear. You must 
swear a solemn oath.” 

The beautiful young face quivers with nameless dread and fear. 

“ Oh, father,” she prays, with lifted hands and streaming eyes, 
“ leave it to Heaven!” 

The dark eyes, fast glazing over with the fllm of death, grow 
hal’d and stern. 

“Vera, child of my martyred wife, will you be false to your 
father’s dying trust? Will you refuse to obey his dying com- 
mands?” 

“No, father, no,” she weeps. 

“ Then place your hand on this Bible, my darling.” 

Silently she ooeys him, the pale, chill light of the waning day 
glimmering in on her ghost-like, pallid face, and the dark eyes 
full of pain and despair. 

And the voice of the dying man rises .strangely on the utter 
stillness. 

“ Swear, Vera, swear by all your hopes of happiness, that you 
will punish Marcia Cleveland through her dearest affections, 
that at any cost to yourself you will avenge your mother’s 
wrongs!” 

A gasp; the words die on Lady Vera’s parched tongue. 

“ Speak, my little countess. Eepeat my words,” he urges, anxi- 
ously. 

With a terrible effort she murmurs them over: 

“I swear, by all my hopes of happiness, that I will punish 
Marcia Cleveland through her dearest affections; that at any cost 
to myself I will avenge my mother’s wrongs! ” 

She glances down at the loved face for his smile of approval. 
An icy hand seems to clutch her heart. Her father has died as 
the last words left her lips— died with a smile of triumph on his 
marble-white face! . , « , 

One piercing cry of anguish, and the Countess of Fau’vale falls 
lifeless across the still warm body of the dead. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Long days of illness for Lady Fairvale follow upon the tragic 
episode of her father’s death. 

Nights and days go by like utter blanks to lier, with only 


40 


COUNTESS VEUA. 


slightly recurring intervals of consciousness. It has been a great 
shock to her, this swift and terrible rending apart of the last 
filial tie earth holds for her. Near kindred she has none. Her 
father’s death has seemed to leave her utterly alone on earth. It 
is true there is some distant cousin and heir-at-law who would, 
no doubt, take it as a favor if she would die and leave him title 
and estates, but him she knows not. 

“There is no one living who has the least claim upon my affec- 
tion,” she thinks, forlornly, to herself that day, when, with agon- 
ized heart she bends to press the last farewell kiss on her father’s 
marble lips; but even with the words a sudden memory stabs her 
heart and crushes her senseless to the floor with the silent whis- 
per of one name — Leslie Noble! 

That feared and dreaded name has power to blanch poor Vera's 
cheek and drive the blood from her heart at any moment. 

“ What if, dazzled by my wealth and title, he should come and 
claim me?” is her dreadful thought, never dreaming of that 
stately monument in fair and flowery Glenwood, on which Leslie 
Noble has caused to be inscribed the simple name of: 

“VERA, 

“WIFE OF LESLIE NOBLE. 

“Died, th, 18—; aged 17.” 

thus trying to atone to the dead in some slight measure for the 
pitiful, unmanly cowardice that had driven her desperate. 

But after that terrible brain fever,' that great struggle between 
the opposing forces of life and death, Vera lies still upon her 
couch with wide, dark eyes that look out from her small, white 
face drearily upon the world— the great, wicked world in which, 
though she has so much wealth and power, she cannot claim so 
much as a single true friend. 

“ Unless Lady Clive be one,” she muses, “ and— and,” but then 
she stops, and takes herself to task because she has so strangelv 
thought of Captain Lockhart just then. 

“ Where can he be?” she wonders. “ Perhaps he has taken 
liimself off to livelier quarters. The house must have been as 
dull as a tomb while I lay so ill. I wonder if Lady Clive wiU 
ever forgive me for spoiling her ‘season’ like this.” 

She propounds this latter question gravely to Lady Clive her- 
self, who responds with an encouraging smile, and the gay little 
answer: 

“ I will try.” 

But when she sees how pale and wistful is Countess Vera’s love- 
ly face, she folds her in her arms and kisses her. 

“My dear, do not give a thought to she says. “There 

is nothing to forgive, believe me. I am very glad that you were 
with U8 when you fell sick. I have nursed you with all the 
love and tenderness I could have given a sister.’^’ 

Why should Countess Vera’s heart beat so fast at the thought 
of being Lady Clive’s sister, and why should her pale cheeks flush, 
and the grateful words falter on her lips? 

“We all love you,” her friend goes on kindly. “ The children 
have been dolorous over you. ‘When will Vera come and see us 


COUNTESS VERA. 


41 


again?’ tliey ask every day. Have you looked at the pretty 
bouquets they sent in for you this morning ?” 

Hady Vera smiles assent. Fresh flowers are brought to her 
room every morning, and they tell her the children send them. 
But there are only three children, and always four bouquets. 
Vera asks no questions but she knows that the fourth one is al- 
ways the largest and sweetest. To-day it is of crimson rose-buds, 
mixed with heliotrope and pansies, for there is always some 
blending of her favorite flower. 

“You do not know how much we miss you from our home 
circle,” the charming Lady Clive resumes, vivaciously. “ You 
must not leave us when you get well, dear. Make your home 
with us until you get settled for life. You will be so lonely if 
you try to live alone with a chaperon. Wont you promise to 
stay?” 

“ I will think of it, ’ Lady Vera answers, gi’atefully, while tears 
rise to her dark eyes. 

Lady Clive comes to sit with her often, sending away the prim 
nurse, and installing herself in her place. She chats vivaciously, 
retailing bits of society gossip, telHng of all the great people who 
have left cards of condolence for the young countess, of the lovers 
who are all desoles over her illness; of Sir Harry’s regret and the 
children’s clamorous despair. But, strange to say, she utterly 
forgets the existence of her brother, Captain Lockhart, or, per- 
haps, deems the subject uninteresting to her guest. 

He has gone away. Lady Vera tells herself; yet she, in some 
vague way, feels that he has not. She hears a step in the hall 
outside her door sometimes — a manly step that is not Sir Harry 
Clive’s, but which has a firm, remembered ring in it that has power 
to send the warm blood flying from her heart to her face. 

When she is well enough to sit up in her white dressing-gown, 
lying back in a great, cushioned arm-chair, the children are ad- 
mitted to see her. They spend a noisy five minutes with their 
friend, then the nurse bundles them out, closing the door on 
their clamorous tongues, but not so quickly but that Countess 
Vera catches Mark’s disgusted dictum in the hall: 

“ Oh, Uncle Phill Vera isn’t a bit pretty any more. Her face 
is all white and thin, and her eyes are 50 big.” 

So he is here. Her subtle intuitions had been right. 

Impulsively she turns to the prim old nurse. 

“ Open that door, and ask Captain Lockhart to come in here.” 

He comes, eager, smiling, filled with wonder, yet outwardly 
calm. 

“You are very kind; you permit me to share the cliildren’s 
treat,” he says. “May I ” then he pauses, confused. 

“ Look at me? yes, do,” she says, crimsoning painfully. “ I 
want you to tell me — is it true what Mark said— that I am not 
l^retty any more?” 

The blue eyes meet hers with the old, strange look that always 
made her heart beat against her will. 

“Mark is a little dunce,” he answers,' smiling. “He has no 
eye for anything but roses. I assure you. Lady Vera, that you 
are as beautiful in your pallor and delicacy as you were in health. 


42 OOUNTESS VERA. 

More beautiful to me,” he adds, his voice falling slightly lower 
“because now you are kind.” 

“Kind!” 

She arches her dark brows slightly in surprise. 

“Yes,” he answers. “Did you not know how I have been 
longing for a sight of your face. Lady Vera? But I dared not ask. 
and now you allow me to see you of your own free will. You 
cannot guess how much I thank you.” , , , . 

His voice trembles with feeling. The countess, blushing in 
spite of herself, tries to make light of it all. 

“I did not think of les proprietea when I called you in here, ’ 
she stammers. “ My vanity was so alarmed by Mark’s terrible 
speech that I forgot eveything. I think you must go now.” 

But he lingers. 

“ Won’t you come down into the library?” persuasively. “ We 
could all amuse you there. You could lie on the sofa with a 
warm shawl over you, and we would read aloud to you, or sing, 
or play — whatever pleased you most. It must be dull for you 
here with your sick fancies. Will you come?” 

What an atmosphere of cheerfulness he has brought into the 
sick-room. 

Lady Vera’s heart that has lain numb and chill, and hopeless 
in her breast so long, seems to warm itself to life again in the 
sunlight of his smile. 

“ I will go, if Lady Clive thinks it prudent,” she declares. 

Lady Clive— that astute general— on being consulted, puts on 
the gravest face over her well-pleased mind, and declares that 
Lady Vera may venture to-morrow, perhaps, and so gives Cap- 
tain Lockhart twenty-four hours of the pleasures of anticipa- 
tion, which philosophers declare e:xceed those of reality. 

With to-morrow begins a love-idyl, one of the sweetest ever 
enacted, perhaps, and the most innocent, for Lady Vera is un- 
conscious of it all, nor dreams that love is near. Captain Lock- 
hart is no bold nor intrusive lover. He does not weary Lady 
Vera with his company or attentions, oftener than not leaving 
her to the companionsliip of his sister. But when he enters the 
room it is always brighter for his coming; when he reads, the 
volume gains a new interest; when he sings, she lies with closed 
eyelids, and wonders why she had ever fancied she would dislike 
this pleasant, agreeable gentleman, with his handsome face, his 
scholarly mind and chivalrous manner. 

“ It is very pleasant having such a friend,” she thinks, within 
her innocent, unconscious heart. “I was so lonely losing dear 
papa, and having not one true heart to turn to in my sorrow.” 

A remembrance of her oath of vengeance- comes into her mind, 
and a troubled look sweeps over the fair, young face. It weighs 
upon her like a burden— the legacy of hate her dying father has 
left her. How shall she ever keep her vow? 

“ Shall I go to America and seek my enemies who are so secure- 
ly hidden away that even detectives cannot find them?” she asks 
herself. “ Or shall 1 lie passive and' wait? and when found, how 
shall I strike Marcia Cleveland’s cmel heart?” 

Alas! poor Vera, if you only knew the dreadful truth. If you 


COUNTESS VERA, 


43 


only guessed how, in wounding your enemy’s heart, you must 
fatally stab your own, you might pray to die now while the pulses 
of life are low, ere life became a living death. Well for us that; 


“ Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate.” 

And the pretty idyl goes on. LadyVere’s morbid thoughts are 
drawn out of herself, and lifted to a higher plane by Philip Loch 
hart’s cheerful, active mind. The weeks round into a mo^' 
and she is almost well again. The color and roundness of y 
have come back to her ^eek, the light of a strange, new, ui 
scions happiness is dawning in the darkness of her eyes. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Far away from the spot where Countess Vera broods over 
oath of vengeance, in far America, away in the green heart of u 
langourous south, is the white marble palace where Mrs. Cleveland 
and her daughter dwelt, hidden from the knowledge of the man 
they had wronged, and who had sworn to bring home to them 
the ruin they had wrought. 

To-day, a lovely morning in the autumn of that summer in 
which the Earl of Fairvale died, Mrs. Cleveland comes out on the 

E iazza of her stately southern home, with a frown upon her 
row. Behind her, in the magnificent saloon she has just quit- 
ted, high words are raging. 

“ You never loved me, or you would do as I wish you,” wails 
the weak voice of Ivy to her husband, as, dissolved in tears, she 
flings herself upon a costly sofa. 

“ I bemn to think I never did, but aU the same you and your 
mother have ruined me by your cursed extravagance. I have 
not a thousand dollars to my name in bank. This place will 
have to be sold and we can live on the proceeds a little longer, 
perhaps,” Leslie Noble answers, in a sharp, high-pitched voice, as 
he strides up and down the floor, cursing within his heart the 
weak fancy that had led him to many this shrewish creature. 

“ Ruined ! I do not believe one word of it !” Mrs. Noble breaks 
cut, starting up and glaring at him with her pale, blue eyes. 
“It is a falsehood you have trumped up to keep from taking 
mamma and me to Europe where our hearts are just breaking to 
go ! You know very well we have not spent a fortune in the lit- 
tle year and a half we have been married. We couldn’t have 
done it.” 

“We have done it, anyhow,” he answers, sullenly. “It was 
no diflicult manner, considering the way in which you and your 
mother have forced me to live. Furniture fit for a palace, 
jewels costly enough for a queen, entertainments costing thou- 
sand of dollars, recklessly repeated over and over. We are at 
the end of the line at last, and you may yet have to take in wash- 
ing for a living.” 

“You brute!” she exclaims, flashing him a glance of wrath and. 
scorn. “ To begrudge us the pleasant time we have had! I did 
not know you could be so mean and stingy! Of course I knew 
that your bachelor uncle in Philadelphia— the one you are named 


44 


COUNTESS VERA. 


for — would leave you his money when he died. I wish he would 
die now. He’s mortally slow about it. I should think he must 
be a hundred years old.” 

“ Good God, Ivy I what a heartless and mercenary woman you 
are!” her husband cries, stormily. “ That poor old man, my 
uncle, who never harmed living soul, how dare you wish for his 

ath? Upon my soul, I am tempted to write to him to leave his 
ey to some orphan asylum or art gallery just to disappoint 
■ hopes.” 

fou would not dare!” she sobs, hysterically. 

Yy me too far, and see what I will not dare,” he answers, 
teningly, and she stops her sobbing and looks up, fearfully, 
e dark, handsome face bent sternly upon her with two 
ildering fires in his gloomy black eyes, 
j is not as handsome and refined a face as Leslie Noble could 
^ast of two years ago. There are lines of dissipation on it. 
There is a certain hardness and coarseness upon it, as if engen- 
dered by ill-nature and the free indulgence of evil passions. As- 
sociation with such a woman as Ivy Cleveland would naturally 
bring that look into a man’s face. Coarse, selfish, and unprinci- 
pled herself, she has dragged the man’s weak, easily-moulded 
» nature down upon a level with her own. 

“When I married you. Ivy,” pursues Mr. Noble, “ I desired to 
take you to Europe on a bridal tour, but you and your mother, 
for no earthly reason that I can imagine, declined to go. You 
refused my offers to take you to my own home in Philadelphia, 
preferring, as you said, the sunny south for a home. Now you 
have changed your minds, and declare American life monoton- 
ous and unendurable, and fancy you would like to figure in the 
courts of Europe. You had just as well cry for the moon. You 
have recklessly dissipated your own property and mine, and 
must bear the consequences. I cannot afford to take you abroad, 
and I do not desire to be badgered about it any longer.” 

“You shall hear about it day and night until I get my wish,” 
Ivy cries, with passionate defiance. “ Sell this house and all our 
fine furniture if you choose. It will bring enough with what 
you have in bank to afford us a brilliant season in London. 
Then by the time we return old Noble will have died, perhaps, 
and left us his fortune.” 

“ Did I not teU you I will not have Uncle Leslie’s death count- 
ed on so coarsely?” cries Mr. Noble, furiously. “ You are a per- 
fect harpy.” 

“And you area brute!” Mrs. Noble retorts. “Aren’t you 
ashamed to call your wife such names? and you pretended to be 
in love with me when you married me, you cruel, unfeeling 
wretch!” 

“You dropped your mask as soon as I made you my wife, 
and showed me what you really were,” Leslie Noble answers, 
with bitter anger and scorn. “ I was only a tool for you, and a 
stepping-stone to power. Your mother’s money was well-nigh 
exhausted, and you married me so that you could squander 
mine. Then, too, you have the most horrible temper in the 


COUNTESS VERA. 4S 

world. Do you think any man could continue to love such a 
\ woman?” 

“ How dare you talk to poor, dear Ivy so cruelly?” Mrs. Clevc' 
land exclaims, stepping back through the low, French window, 
and glaring at her son-in-law with tigerish hate in her keen, 
black eyes. “You have frightened her into hysterics, you un- 
feeling wretch!” 

“I would thank you not to interfere between me and my 
’wife,” he answers, stung to defiance by the insolence of both 
mother and daughter. “You have always thrust yourself mto 
my affairs. You have been the power behind the throne and 
moved Ivy like a puppet at your will. I wish to Heaven you would 
go away and leave us to fight our own battles. It would be 
something to be rid of even one of you!” 

A scream of rage from Ivy, who proceeds to roll on the fioor in 
violent hysterics. Such scenes as these are of frequent occur- 
rence, but Mr. Noble has seldom spoken his mind so plainly, es- 
pecially on the subject of his mother-in law. There is no telling 
what might have happened, for Mrs. Cleveland looks furious 
enough to spring upon the offender and rend him limb from limb, 
but at this moment there appears upon the scene a messenger 
with one of those yellow-covered envelopes which carry joy or 
sorrow to so many hearts. 

“ A telegram,” Mr. Noble exclaims, and tears it hurriedly 
open. 

As he reads, a look of sorrow, strangely blended with relief, 
comes out upon his features. His wife, forgetful of her sham 
hysterics, springs up and regards him, intently. 

“A telegram! From whom? And what does it mean?” she 
exclaims. 

“It is from my lawyer,” Mr. Noble answers, bitterly, “ and it 
means that the devil takes care of his own so well that you will 
be able to gratify your latest whim. My uncle is dead and has 
left me his whole fortune.” 

“Glorious news!” Mrs. Cleveland and her daughter echo with 
one accord. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Some hints of autumn are in the soft, warm airs that blow 
through the smoke and heat of London. The fashionable season 
is over, and the gay butterflies of fashion have begun to seek 
“ fresh fields and pastures new.” Lady Chve begins to think of 
flitting with the rest. 

It has been settled that the Countess of Fairvale shall remain 
with the Clives for the autumn and winter months at least. She 
is in mourning for her father, and is quite settled in her mind at 
first that she will go home to her ancestral castle and spend the 
period of retirement in strict seclusion with a proper chaperon. 
But the Clives will not hear to it. Lady Clive is afraid that she 
will mope herself to death. 

“ Besides, I shall be so lonely,” she declares. “ Philip is going 
back soon to his own home, and we shall have no young people 


46 


COUNTESS VENA. 


with us at all if Lady Vera leaves us, too. My dear, do say that 
YOU will stay. We are not going to be very gay this season. Sir 
Harry and I want to take the children down to our country 
home, where they may roll in the grass to their hearts’ content. 
Let us invite two or three sweet young girls, and as many young 
men, to go down with us, and we can have such a charming time, 
with picnics and lawn tennis, and simple country pleasures. 
Then, after awhile, we will go to Switzerland and climb the Alps. 
What say you, my little countess?” 

Lady Vera, so ardently pressed, yields a gentle assent, and the 
party of “ sweet, young guis” and eligible young men is imme- 
diately organized. Captain Lockhart promising to go down with 
them and remain a week before he returns to America. 

So in the late summer they go down to Sunny Bank, as the 
Clives call the large, rambling, ornate pile of white buildings that 
is the sweetest home in all Devonshire. 

The children go mad with delight over the fragrant grass and 
the autumnal flowers. The young people begm to pair off in 
couples, and one day Vera goes for a walk with the American 
soldier. 

She is looking her fairest and sweetest. A dress of soft, rich, 
lusterless black drapes her slender flgure superbly, and the round, 
white column of her throat rises lily-like from the thin, soft ruche 
of black around it, her face appearing like some rare flower be- 
neath the shade of her wide, black Gainsborough hat. No won- 
der that Captain Lockhart’s dark blue eyes return again and 
again to that delicately lovely face. 

“It is no wonder,” said the lords, 

“ She is more beautiful than day.” 

They walk slowly down the green, country lane, bordered with 
oak and holly. The flowers are beginning to fade, and the air is 
sweet with their pungent fragrance. The sky is deeply blue, with 
little, white, silvery clouds saihng softly over it. The sun is 
shining sweet and warm as if it were May. Little birds are sing- 
ing blithely for joy as if the spring-time had come again. 

“ Do you know that this is the first time I have walked by your 
side since that day la^t spring, when you were so cruel to me?” 
he asks, breaking a long interval of silence that has been peril- 
ously sweet. 

“ Cruel?” she says, lifting to his the half-shy gaze of the dark and 
dreamy eyes. 

“Yes, cruel, for you forbade me even to look at you,” he 
answers, smihng now over that past pain in the eager elation 
of the present. “ Ah, Lady Vera, you did not know then, per- 
haps, what a cross you laid upon me — that I loved you even 
then so dearly ” 

“ Hush!” she cries, in such a startled voice that he pauses 
and looks around to see what has frightened her, 

“ What is it. Lady Vera ? Has anything alarmed you?” he 
asks her, anxiously. 

“Nothing, but that I am tired. I will sit down here on this 
mossy log, and rest a moment,” she answers, sinking wearily 


COUNTESS VERA, 


4’ 


down, a sudden paleness chasing the roses from her cheeks. 
Captain Lockhart throws himself down on the short, velvety, 
green turf at her feet. There ensues a short silence, broken 
only by the hum of the busy insects, the song of the birds, and 
the soft rustle of a passing wind in the leaves overhead. 

There is some embarrassment in their silence. Her cry of 
alarm has been so sharp and sudden that he does not know 
how to return to the interrupted subject. iGid yet his heart 
is so full of it. 

He looks into the lovely, spirited young face, and he cannot 
keep the words back any longer. - 

He turns to her suddenly, and tells her the stoiy of his love in 
burning words, whose eloquent fire brooks no check nor remon- 
strance. His face glows under its soldierly brown, his blue eyes 
darken with feeling, his voice trembles with passion, but when 
he pauses, Lady Vera, who has heard him through with tightly 
clenched hands and a strangely blanched face, can only falter; 

“ You love me. Captain Lockhart? I thought — that we were 
only friends.” 

The frightened, wondering voice falls like ice upon his heart. 

“Only friends,” he echoes, “when I have loved you since the 
first hour I saw you. Oh, Lady Vera, do not grow so pale ! Is it 
strange that I should love you ? Others have been as wild and 
presumptuous as I have. Others have come down before the 
fire of those dark eyes, slain by their beauty. I know you have 
been cold, indifferent to all, even to me at first. But when you 
thawed to me at last, when you were kindly and friendly ” 

“Yes, that was all,” she interiiipts him, in a kind of frantic 
haste. ‘ ‘ I was kind and friendly, that was all. I meant no more, 
believe me.” 

The soldier’s blue eyes look at her with a keen reproach before 
which her own glance wavers and falls. 

“ Lady Vera, you are no coquette,” he exclaims, “and yet 1 
could swear that you have given me encouragement to hope that 
you would love me. Do you remember the beautiful poems of 
love I have read to you, with my very heart on my lips? Do you 
remember the songs I have sung to you, and the dreamy twilights 
when we sat and talked together? Do you remember how you 
have worn the flowers I brought you? You have blushed and 
smiled for me as you did for no other, and you are no coquette. 
Oh, my darling, surely you will love me?” 

As he talks to her, the color goes from white to red, and red to 
white in her beautiful face. Her lips quiver, the tears spring into 
her eyes. 

“ You are blaming me,” she says, incoherently, “ but you have 
no right. I know nothing of love. I thought we were only 
friends. I am so sorry.” 

“ Do you mean to say you do not love me, that you did not 
know I loved you, and was seeking you for my wife, Lady Vera?’" 
he asks, with forced calmness. 

“ Yes, I mean all these things,” she answers, looking at him 
with such wdde, frank, innocent eyes that he can find no room 
for doubt.- 


48 


COUNTESS VEllA. 


He is puzzled for a moment. 

“I have deceived myself,” he sighs, inly. “I thought she 
was learning to love me.” 

“ Lady Vera, I have been too hopeful,” he says, manfully. “ I 
have been thinking of love while you dreamed only of friend- 
ship. But now that you know my heart, will you not suffer me to 
woo you for my bride? I love you so dearly I am sure I could 
make you happy.” 

Ah! tlie fathomless pain that comes into the dark eyes into 
which he gazes so tenderly. He cannot understand it. 

“ I shall never marry. Captain Lockhart,” she answers, in a 
low, pained voice. “ There is no use to woo me. I can never be 
yours.” 

“ Never! ” he echoes, with despair in his voice. 

“I shall never marry anyone,” she repeats, mournfully. 

He looks at her with all his passionate heart in liis eyes. 

“Never is a terrible word. Lady Vera,” he answers sadly. 
“ Only think how I love vou. I have never loved anyone before 
in all my life, and I shall never love anyone again. You are my 
first and last love. Only think how terrible it is, how cruelly 
hard, for me to give up the hopes of winning you for my own. 
You are so beautiful and noble, my dark-eyed love. I have 
dreamed of kissing your small, white hands, your fair, white 
brow, your golden hair, even your beautiful, crimson lips. I 
had thought to win you for my very own, and now you strike 
dead every hope by that cruel word, nemr. Oh, my darling, you 
are too young to say you will never wed. What can you know 
of the needs of your own heart? Let me teach you to love me.” 

“Ah, if he only knew the fatal tmth,” the tortured young 
heart moans to itself, in the silence of its great despair. “ If he 
knew that I am already bound by a tie that I hate and loathe.” 

But she speaks no word, only to look up at him with pained, 
dark eyes, and reiterate: 

“ I am very sorry I have caused you pain. Captain Lockhart, 
but I shall never many.” 

He rises and looks down at her with his handsome face grown 
strangely pale and grave, his b'ue eyes dim and heavy. 

“ So be it, Lady Vera,” he answers, folding his arms across his 
broad breast. “ You know what is best for you, but, ah, love- 
ly one, if you could know how sweet were the hopes you have 
slain this hour you could not choose but weep over my sadden- 
ed life.” 

She put up her white hand imploringly. 

“ Forbear, Captain Lockhart. You cannot guess what pangs 
are aching in my breast or you would spare me your reproaches. 
Be pitiful and leave me.” 

“ Not here,” he says, looking up and down the fiowery lane. 
“ Let me take you back to the house. Lady Vera. We cannot 
trust these autumnal skies. It may rain at any moment.” 

“ As you will,” she answers, wearily, and rising, retraces her 
steps by his side. But this time they speak no word to each oth- 
er and the fair young countess flies up to her room, and flings 
herself down on her oouch to weep such tears as Ifave never 


COUNTESS VERA. 


49 


Tained from those lovely eyes before, for a great happiness and a 
great sorrow have come into her life, as it were, together. 

“For I love him,” she moans to herself. “ I love him, but as 
Heaven sees me, I did not know it. It all came to me like a 
flash when he was telling me how he loved me. Oh, God, what 
liappiness is possible to me, and yet beyond my reach.” 

She lies still weeping bitterly, and recalling in all its bitterness 
that midnight marriage by the side of her dying mother. 

“Oh I what a blind mistake it was,” she weeps. “But for 
Leslie Noble I might marry the man I love. I might go back 
to America with him. I might tell him the story of my oath of 
vengeance, and he would help me to find my enemy and punish 
her for her sin.” 

The day drags wearily. In the afternoon Vera goes down to 
the library in search of something to read. Gliding softly in she 
finds it tenanted by Captain Lockhart, who is busy over a fresh 
batch of papers from the United States. He glances up as she is 
about withdrawing, and springs to his feet with courteous grace. 

“ Pray do not let me frighten you. Lady Vera. I will take my 
budget of papers, and be off,” he exclaims. 

“ No, I do not wish to disturb you,” she answers. “I am in 
search of something to read myself.” 

“Pray take your choice from among my papers,” he replies, 
gravely, but kindly, and half-listlessly Lady Vera turns them 
over and selects one at random. 

Captain Lockhart places a chair for her and returns to his read- 
ing, thinking that the best way to place her at her ease. His 
heart yearns over the beautiful, pale, suffering face, but he does 
not dream of her sorrow, and he has no right to comfort her, so 
he turns his glance away, and, looking round again a little later, 
sees that Countess Vera has quietly swooned away in her chair, 
and that the American newspaper has slipped from her lap to the 
fioor. 

With a startled cry that brings Lady Clive rushing into the 
room, he springs to his feet. Lady Vera’s swoon is a long and 
deep one, and they wonder much over its cause, but no one 
dreams that the American newspaper has caused it all. Yet the 
listless gaze of the unhappy girl roving over the list of deaths in 
a Philadelphia paper has found one line that struck dumb, for a 
moment, the sources of life in their fountains. It was ordy this: 

“Died, at his residence on Arch street, on the 19th instant 
Leslie Noble.'' 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Lady Vera waking from her long and death-like swoon, 
wakens also to a dream of happiness. The terrible incubus that 
weighed upon her so heavily is lifted from her heart. The love- 
less fetter that bound her is snapped asunder. Leshe Noble, 
whose very name has been a shuddering horror to her for more 
than two years, is dead, and she is free— free! What exquisite 
possibilities of happiness thrill her heart at the very thought! 


50 


COUNTESS VEBA, 


She keeps her room that evening, pleading weariness as an ex- 
cuse for not appearing at dinner. She wants time to think over 
the joyful change in her prospects before she meets Captain 
Lockhart again. She is scarcely herself now. Such a strange, 
tremulous, passionate happiness is thrilling through her heart as 
makes her nervous with its intensity. Little shafts of fire sjeem 
thiilling thi'ough her veins. Love, which she had thought never 
to experience, has taken up its dwelling in her heart, and every 
nerve thrills with its unspeakable rapture. 

“i^d I was so blind, I thought it only friendship!” the fair 
young countess murmurs to herself, with a happy smile playing 
around her lips. “ How happy he will be when I tell him that I 
love him, and that I will be Ins wife! It cannot be wi’ong for me 
to marry him. I am sure he will help me to my vengeance when 
I tell him of the oath I swore by my father’s death-bed. Dear 
Philip, how grand and handsome he is! He. is the noblest of 
men!” 

Lady Clive, having privately questioned her brother as to 
Vera’s fainting fit, and received no satisfaction, is at her wits’ 
end! Why this terrible swoon, when she had deemed Lady Vera 
well and strong again ? 

She wonders even more when the young girl appears at break- 
fast the next morning. Never had the young countess appeared 
so enchantingly lovely. Clothed in a delicate, white morning 
dress, with purple pansies at her throat and waist, and all her 
glorious golden hair floating loosely about her perfect form, with 
a blush of happiness on her cheeks, and the shy light of tender- 
ness in her splendid eyes, it seemed to all as if her peerless 
beauty had received a new dower of glory. All wondered, but 
none knew that the threatening cloud that had overshadowed her 
life so long had rolled away, and that it was the new light of 
hope that made her face so radiant. 

“You look unusually well, my dear. There is no trace of your 
illness left this morning,” Lady Chve exclaims, with her usual 
charming good nature, as Lady Vera glides into her seat. 

A blush and smile of acknowledgement from the young girl. 
She glances shyly under her long lashes at Captain Lockhart, who 
is her vis-a-vis at table. But the handsome soldier, after one 
slight glance and a courtly bow, does not seem to see her. Miss 
Montgomery, who sits next him, absorbs his attention this 
morning. She is a belle and beauty, and has long angled for 
Captain Lockhart. Seeing Lady Vera so gay and smiling, he re- 
solves not to damp her pleasure by a sight of his own grave, 
troubled face, so he lends himself assiduously to the coquette’s 
efforts to amuse him, succeeding so well in his plan that she is 
completely blinded, and murmurs to herself with sudden bitter- 
ness : 

“ He is flirting with Mss Montgoraeiy to show me how little 
he cares for my rejection. Ah, well, if he is satisfied, I am!” 

So the first seeds of pride are sown in her heart by a coquette’s 
petty arts. 

“Alas! how slight a cause may move 
Dissension between hearts that love!” 


COUNTESS VERA. 


51 


“ I had meant to win him back to my side,” she thinks, with a 
sudden sigh. “ I would not have told him so in so many words, 
but I thought to let him see that I repented after all, and that — 
I love him I I fear me I am too late after all. Oh, that he had 
not spoken yesterday. If only he had waited until to-day!” 

After breakfast they organized a riding-party. Captain Lock- 
hart rides by Miss Montgomery’s side, the countess goes with 
Lord C^ordon — poor Lord Gordon, who has long been waiting for 
this chance to put his fate 

“ To the test, 

And win or lose it all.” 

How lovely she was in her sable habit and streaming feather. 
Though Captain Lockhart rode attentive by Miss Montgomery's 
side, he could not help seeing her beauty and repeating to himself 
Tennyson’s exquisite lines: 

“ As she fled fast through sun and shade, 

The happy winds upon her played. 

Blowing the ringlet from the braid, 

She looked so lovely as she swayed 
The rein with dainty finger tips, 

A man had given all other bliss, 

And all his worldly wealth for this ; 

■Eo waste his whole heart in one kiss 
Upon her perfect lips.” 

“ And yet after aU, in her quiet, proud way, she must be a 
flirt,” he thinks to himself, with subdued bitterness. “How 
bright and gay she appeared this morning, as if careless of my 
sorrow, and almost exulting in it. I thought she had more feel- 
ing. And, indeed, she appeared to smile on my suit, though she 
was coy and cold at first. See now how charming she is with 
Lord Gordon. Poor fellow, he has long been seeking a chance to 
propose to her. Well, he will find it to-day, and she will ruth- 
lessly trample his heart as she did mine yesterday.” 

Sweet, innocent Vera, how fast the springing hopes of last 
night and this morning are turning to dead sea fruit upon thy 
lips. 

Lord Gordon speaks and receives his answer. Lady Vera is 
very sorry to pain him, but she has no heart to give. 

Captain Lockhart sees the shadow on the fair, English face of 
the young lord, and is secretly conscious of a savage satisfaction. 

She has refused him, too. She is too cold and proud to love 
any one, he tells himself. 

“Are you really going to-morrow, Lockhart?” Lord Gordon 
asks him in the drawing-room, that evening. 

“ Yes, I am really going,” he answers, and never dreams of the 
wild throb Lady Vera’s heart gives beneath its silken bodice. 

“ Why don’t you ask me to go with you?” Lord Gordon con- 
tinues, good-naturedly. “I have long contemplated, a tour of 
the United States. I am ennuyed to death. I should like a taste 
of a different life.” . 

“ I shall be glad of your company, and you will be quite likely 
to have a taste of something different if you go with me,” laughs 


52 


COUNTESS VERA, 


Captain Lockhart. “ Father writes me that my regiment may 
be ordered out on the plains to fight the Indians next month.” 

“ Ugh! those homd savages!” the ladies cry, all but Lady Vera. 

She raises the black satin fan a little higher before her face, and 
leans back in her chair, indifferent, to all appearance, but, oh, 
with such a deadly pain tearing at her heart-strings. 

“ To lose him like this, ” she moans to herself, “ it is too dread- 
ful. Oh, if I had even ten minutes alone with him, I would make 
him understand the truth. He should not leave me!” 

But Captain Lockhart, stealing a furtive glance at the beauti- 
ful face in its high-bred repose, tells himself sadly; 

“ She is utterly idifferent to what fate I meet. Beautiful as 
she is, she must be utterly heartless.” 

“ Then if you like to have me I will be ready to go with you to- 
morrow, Lockhart,” Lord Gordon announces, and gives Lady 
Vera one gloomy glance and heavy sigh. 

It is for her sake he is going. Since she is not for him he 
means to try and forget her. 

But Lady Vera, in the keen smart of her own pain is oblivious 
to his. 

She rises and slips through the low, French window out upon 
the balcony, and sits down in the darkness not heavier than her 
thoughts. 

Presently low voices fioat out to her from the curtained 
recesses of the window — Captain Lockhart’s and Lord Gordon’s. 

“Eather a sudden resolution, isn’t it, this trip across the 
water?” in Lockhart’s clear, full voice. 

“Well, yes,” in Gordon’s voice. “I’m running away from 
myself, you understand. I fancy we are sailing in the same 
boat, eh, old fellow?” 

“Yes,” Captain Lockhart answers, quietly. 

“I thought so. Saw that you were hard hit. What are you 
going to do about it?” 

“Nothing,” Captain Lockhai-t answers, with grim pleasantry. 
“ I am a soldier. I look for wounds upon the field of battle.” 

“ lias she really a heart, do you think?” Lord Gordon pursues. 
“The fellows raved about her last season in London. She re- 
fused Greyhurst and a score of others as eligible. She must be 
very cold.” 

“ I fancy so,” Captain Lockhart answers, dryly. “ A beautiful 
iceberg.” 

“Few women would have refused you, Lockhart. There was 
the beautiful Clarendon year before last, and now the charming 
Montgomery ready to fling herself at your head.” 

“Spare my modesty. Lord Gordon. You are calling in the aid 
of your imagination now. Cannot we have some music to be- 
guile the moments of our last evening at Sunny Bank?” 

They pass away to another portion of the room. 

Lady Vera sits silent, brooding over the words she has heard. 

‘ ‘ How coolly they discussed their rejection,” she thinks. ‘ ‘ Lord 
Gordon wondered if I had a heart. Captain Lockhart called me 
a beautiful iceberg. Perhaps he does not care much. How care- 
lessly he said that he was a soldier and expected wounds upon 


COUNTUSS VERA, 


the field of battle. Perhaps ho does not mind it, now that it is 
over. I remember that one of the poets has written: 

“ Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart, 

’Tis woman’s whole existence.” 

The moon comes out and shines upon her, sitting sad and 
lonely, with her white hands folded across her black dress. 
Two quiet tears tremble upon her lashes, and fall upon her 
cheeks. 

“ If I were a fatalist,” she thinks, “ I should believe that my 
life is destined to lie always in the shadow. I have never known 
an hour of perfect happiness.” 

No one seems to miss her. In the drawing-room they are sing- 
ing. Miss Mongomery’s pretty soprano blends softly with the 
soldier’s superb tenor. 

The pretty, sentimental song dies away into silence presently. 

There is some careless talk and laughter. Again the piano 
keys thrill under the firm touches of a man, and this time Cap- 
tain Lockhart sings alone, sings with such passion and fervor as 
Lady Vera has never heard before, sings with his whole heart 
trembling on his lips, and she feels within her heart that it is 
his farewell to her: 

“ I love thee, I love thee, 

Far better than wine; 

But the curse is above, 

Thou’lt never be mine. 

“ As the blade wears the scabbard, 

The billow the shore. 

So sorrow doth fret me 
Forevermore. 

“ Fair beauty, I leave thee 
To conquer my heart; 

I’ll see thee, I’ll bless thee, 

And then depart. 

“Let me take, ere I vanish. 

One look of thine eyes — 

One smile for remembrance, 

For life soon flies. 

“ And now for the fortune 
That hangeth above. 

And to bury in battle 
My dreams of love.” 

“Does he know that I am here?” she asks herself. “Perhaps 
he meant me to hear what he said just now. A beautiful ice- 
berg, that is what he thinks me.” 

Someone misses Lady Vera, perhaps the significance of the 
soldier’s song recalls her to mind; they go out to seek her, the 
giddy girls, who cannot guess how she has stolen out to bear her 

pain alone. _ , __ 

“ Here she is, hiding from us,” they cry. “ Come, Lady Vera, 
it is your turn now to sing.” 

“I— cannot,” she murmurs, faintly. 

“ No such obstinacy can be tolerated,” they reply. “ Lord 


54 


COUNTESS VERA. 


Gordon and Captain Lockhai-t leave us to-morrow and everyone 
must contribute to their entertainment to-night. Only one song, 
Lady Vera, then we will excuse you.^' 

She hesitates for a moment. Then a thought flashes over lier 
mind. 

“ He sang to me,” she thinks. “Why cannot I sing to him ? 
Surely he must understand me then.” 

She suffers them to persuade her, and Lord Gordon comes for- 
ward to turn the leaves of the music. She shakes her head. 

“I will sing some simple thing from memory,” she says, and 
then he takes her fan and retains his place near her on that small 
pretext. His eyes linger on her beauty, the proud throat and 
fair face rising lily-like from the somber black dress. 

She touched the white keys softly with her slim, white fingers. 
A plaintive melody rises, a mournful, minor chord; she sings with 
sudden, passionate fervor, some simple, pathetic words; 

“ I strove to tear thee from my heart, 

The effort was in vain, 

The spell was ever on my life. 

And I am here again. 

“Oh, I have ranged in countries strange, 

And vowed no more to meet, 

But power was in thy parting glance 
To bring me to thy feet. 

“ We cannot go against love’s will 
When he has. bound us fast ; 

Forgive the thought that did thee wrong 
And be my own at last!” 

She glances up. If she can point the words by even one deep 
glance into her lover’s eyes, all may yet be well. But Miss Mont- 
gomery, as if in malice prepense, has suddenly risen and leaned 
against the piano just before the singer’s eyes. Captain Lock- 
hart, standing with folded arms across the room, is out of the 
range of her vision. Lady Vera rises in despair. Her innocent 
little plan has failed. All hope dies in her breast. 

She sits down in a quiet corner, and Lord Gordon insists on 
fanning her, and showing her a new portfolio of engravings. 
This is his last evening with her, and like the reckless moth that 
he is, he singes his wings in the^ame of her beauty. 

Someone calls him away at last, and the girl’s heart gives a 
great, muffled throb of relief. She is alone for the moment, in 
tlie quiet alcove, half hidden by the white lace curtain. Will 
Captain Lockhart come to her now? she asks herself, with a wild- 
ly-beating heart. 

He sees her sitting there in her black dress and lily-white beau- 
ty, the light shining down on her golden head and star-like face. 
Some impulse stronger than his pride moves him to cross the 
room to her side. She glances up with a smile so dazzhng in its 
joy, that Tennyson’s Unes rush into his mind: 

“ What if with her sunny hair, 

And smile as sunny *as cold, 

She meant to weave me a snare 


C0JJJTTE8S VERA. 


55 


Of some coquettish deceit, 

Cleopatra-like, as of old, 

To-entangle me when we met. 

To have her lion roll in a silken net. 

And fawn at a victor’s feet?” 

He sits down in Lord Gordon’s vacant chair, the little stand 
with the portfolio of new engravings and a vase of roses just be- 
tween them. The countess takes one of the crimson roses and 
plays with it to hide her nervousness. She does not think how 
beautiful her slender, white hands look playing with the red 
leaves of the rose. 

The handsome soldier is for once embarrassed. That smile 
which she had thought would tell him all has only puzzled him. 

“ Is she only a coquette, after all?” he asks himself. “Is she 
trying to draw me into the toils again that she may see how great 
is her power?” 

With that thought he grows cold and hard toward her. 

“ Lady Vera, do you know that you are very cmel to that poor 
rose?” he asks. 

“Ami? I did not mean to be,” she answers, gently, looking 
down at the torn petals strewing her lap. “ I did not really think 
what I was doing.” 

“ You had better give it to me, I will care for it more tender- 
ly,” he pursues. 

“Not this, but a sweeter one,” she answers, with a beating 
heart. 

Her white hands flutter over the vase a moment, and she 
selects a lovely scarlet one just opening into perfect bloom. 

Bending her head with regal grace, she touches the rose to the 
crimson flower of her lips and holds it toward him. 

Something in the strange significance of the action strikes him 
oddly. An eager, impetuous speech springs to his lips, but Miss 
Montgomery, who has seen the rose given, comes hastily up to 
them, interrupting him. 

“ Lord Gordon has been telling me of those beautiful new en- 
gravings. May I look at them, Lady Vera, if I do not interrupt 
yous tete-a-teteV^ she asks with sweet unconsciousness. 

“ Certainly. Pray take my seat,” Lady Vera answers with icy 
coldness, moving away. 

Captain Lockhart is about to follow her when the fan: marplot 
claims his assistance in adjusting the stereoscope to the right 
focus. 

Before she releases him the attention of Lady Vera is claimed 
by Sir Roger Mansfield, who admires her immensely. 

She leans back in her chair listening to his lively sallies of wit 
and humor with a languid smile, in apparent forgetfulness of the 
episode of the roses. 

“ It was only a bit of careless coquetry. I was a fool to think 
she meant anything by it,” the captain fells himself, angrily, 
turning away. 

Fifteen minutes later they are all separating for the night, and 
Captain liockhart and Lord Gordon make their adieux to the 1^- 


OO 


COUNTESS VERA. 


dies because they must take the early train for London in the 
morning before the household is astir. 

Lady Vera stands quietly waiting her turn. She has wished 
Lord Gordon farewell and hon voyage vfith. a smile, and she sum- 
mons all her pride to bear her up in her parting with Captain 
Lockhart. 

He has left her for the last one, perhaps with some care that 
hers shall be the last hand he clasps, the last eyes he looks into 
on leaving England. 

“Lady Vera, I have to thank you at parting that you have 
helped to make my stay in England very pleasant,” he says, 
offering his hand, with his soldierly grace. 

No reproaches for the pain she has caused him, the wrecked 
heart he carries away from the field whereon he was vanquished. 

Only the brave, soldierly smile, and the courtly words. He 
wears the scarlet rose proudly on his breast, though he feels it to 
be a token of defeat. 

Lady Vera lays her hand on his and tries to say something 
very calm and friendly, but the words die on her white lips. 

She is very pale; he cannot help from seeing that. Her voice 
is very gentle, but so low he fails to catch the words. 

She does not look up at him; that is what pains him most. 
How is he to know tliat the lowered lids veil the terrible pain in 
the dark eyes she cannot lift to meet his yearning glance. 

Others are looking on, and Vera, Countess of Fairvale, is too 
proud to wear her heart on her sleeve. The message of the rose 
lias failed, and there is now no other sign to tell him that she 
loves him and would fain take back the denial of yesterday. 

So he goes, wounded by the coldness of her parting, yet won- 
dering a little why the hand that lay a moment in his own had 
felt so icy cold. 

Ah, if he only had guessed the truth. - But nothing was further 
from Captain Lockhart’s thoughts than that Lady Vera loved 
him and longed to let him know the truth. 

He carried back with him to his native land the memory of a 
fair face and a heart that seemed colder than the beautiful ice- 
berg to which he had likened her in the bitterness of his pain. 

For Lady Vera, she glides from the room, calm and cold to all 
outward seeming, but filled with the bitterness of a great de- 
spair. 

The long night passes in a weary vigil, and the handsome 
soldier never dreams whose dark eyes watch his departure next 
morning while the words of his song echo through her heart and 
brain. 

“ As the sword wears the scabbard, 

The billow the shore, 

So sorrow doth fret me 
Forevermore.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Long before the next season began in London, loud-tongued 
Madam Rumor was talking of the rich Americans who had 


comTEss vEnA. 

boTiglit Darnley House, tliat splendid mansion, from its ruined 
owner, and refitted it anew with almost princely magnificence, 
and filled it with troops of obsequious servants who held it in 
charge while the owners courted pleasure abroad.” 

The most ridiculous stories were abroad concerning these peo- 
ple. 

They were said to possess unlimited wealth; their diamonds 
were believed to equal Queen Victoria’s; it was confidently re- 
ported and universally believed that they owned mines of gold 
and diamonds in Nevada and Cahfornia. 

If the rumors had been traced back to their source it would 
liave been found that the American ladies themselves had artful- 
ly promulgated these reports, but this was not known. 

The stories usually came from the servants of Darnley House, 
and confidently accepted, for are not hirelings always supposed 
to know the affairs of their masters and mistresses? 

Society was on the qui vive for the beginning of the season 
when, it was said, the Americans expected to take possession 
of their magnificent residence, and astonish the world with their 
splendor and edat. 

Meanwhile the three Americans with whom gossip made so 
free, were disporting themselves in the delights of leisurely trav- 
el, taking in Germany, Italy and Switzerland, in their round of 
pleasure. 

Lady Clive, meeting them in Switzerland, had written thus to 
the Countess of Fairvale, who contrary to all persuasion had 
gone home to Fairvale Park to spend the summer quietly with a 
prim, elderly gentlewoman as chaperon: 

“ We have some Americans here. You know I usually adore 
everything that hails from the land of the free, being one of 
them myself. But, really, I could not fraternize with these peo- 
ple. The man was well enough, but the wife and the mother-in- 
law — well, dearest Vera, the English language has no term strong 
enough to express my antipathy. They are abominably rich, I 
believe. I hear that they have bought and refurnished Darnley 
House with a view to spending the season in London. If they do 
you wiU meet them, as you have promised to come to Chve 
House for the season. 

“ Do you care to hear about Philip, poor, dear boy? They sent 
him out on the plains, poor dear, to fight the Indians, wretched 
creatures, this summer. He has been wounded in the shoulder, 
and promoted to a colonelcy for bravery. Lord Gordon is com- 
ing over in time for the hunting season, I hear, but Philip will 
not promise to get leave and come with him. 

“ Dear Vera, I wish you would have come with us. I know 
you aremioped to death in your grand, but lonely home, with 
prim old Mrs. Vance for your duenna. As soon as we go home 
to Sunny Bank and rest up a little, we mean to take you by 
storn\ Sir Harry, and I, and all the children.” 

Lady Vera smiles over that last threat. The news is very wel- 
come. She fancies how much brighter Fairvale Park will seem 
with Lady Clive’s happy children chasing the deer in the wide, 
green park, and gathering the lilies from the peaceful lake. She 


58 


COUNTESS VERA. 


takes no interest in the story of the rich Americans, but later 
on a letter comes to her from New York, which, oddly enough, 
instantly recalls Lady Clive’s letter to her mind. 

The letter is from the New York detective whom her father 
had employed to track his enemy to her hiding-place. Lady 
Fairvale having retained him in her employ, he writes, briefly 
and respectfully: 

“ I have traced the Clevelands at last only to lose them again. 
They have been living in Florida all the while. The daughtei 
has married a rich man, and this summer they came to New 
York, and soon after sailed for England. I learn that they are 
now traveling in Switzerland with gi’eat eclat, so that your lady- 
ship will scarcely fail to hear of them.” 

Lady Vera is walking slowly by the beautiful lake, brooding 
deeply over this letter. She does not see the white lilies nodding 
their heads among the broad, green leaves, nor the soft breeze 
dimpling the placid water into tiny laughing wavelets. She is 
thinking of Lady Clive’s story of the ri(^ Americans, to whom 
she had conceived an antipathy. 

They must be one and the same,” she tells herself, “but I 
cannot write to Lady Clive and ask her, because she is traveling 
all the while, and gives me no address. But I shall see them m 
London, as they will be there for the season. And so Ivy has 
married since her old lover, Leslie Noble, died. I wonder whom 
she has beguiled into taking her? Whoever he may be, I pity 
him, being tied to such a shrew! Well, well, the time for my 
vengeance is near at hand. What shape will it take, I wonder ?*’ 

A wind, colder than that which ruffles the lilies on the lake, 
seems to chiU her graceful form, as she recalls the words of her 
vow: 

“ I swear, by all my hopes of happiness, that I will punish 
that woman through her dearest affections — that, at any cost to 
myself, I wiU avenge my mother's wrongs! They are rich, arro- 
gant, prosperous. How can I hurt them? ” she muses. “ What 
blow can I strike at their stony hearts that will avenge the 
wrongs of the dead? Shall I tell the world the story of my 
mother’s wrongs and mine? Marcia Cleveland and her cruel 
daughter would only laugh me to scorn if I did. Yet I must 
think of some plan to humble them. I am bound by my oath to 
the dead. All is blank before me yet; I cannot see one step be- 
fore me to the accomplishment of my task. Would it be wrong 
to ask God to help me to punish those wicked and cruel 
women? ” 

What form will her vengeance take? Day and night the lonely 
young countess broods over that puzzling question. She forms 
a hundred schemes and abandons them all. Some of thfem are 
too dreadful. Her pure, delicate nature recoils from them. She 
grows pale and thin brooding over this vexing question. It ban- 
ishes for a time even the remembrance of Captain Lockhart from 
her mind. She scarcely eats or sleeps. Long hours she wanders 
by the quiet lake, up and down, up and down, like a sentry on 
his post, heedless of Mrs. Vance’s remonstrances on her pale and 
altered looks. 


C0UNTE88 VERA. 


51 ) 


“You live too much alone, I fear,” the kind chaperon remon- 
Btrates. “ It is not well for the young to live so quiet and isola- 
ted a Me as you are doing, my dear. You should accept the 
invitations of the county families, and entertain them in 
return.” 

“ I am in mourning,” Lady Vera objects, wearily. 

“But I do not mean for you to be very gay, my dear Lady 
Vera. If you would even invite some young lady of your own 
age to come and visit you it would be so much livelier for you. 
There is Miss Montgomery, for instance. She is at Sir William 
Spencer’s. I dare say she would come if you invited her.” 

“I detest Miss Montgomery,” Lady Vera replies, with unusual 
pettishness. 

“Someone else, then; anyone whom you could hke,” Mrs. 
Vance suggests. 

“ There is no one,” Lady Vera answers. “ I expect Lady Clive 
soon. We shall have a little gaiety then. I will have no one 
else before that.” 

“ I do not think you are well. Lady Vera. You have lost your 
color, you are growing thin, your eyes look large in your face. 
Will you not consult a physician?” Mrs. Vance goes on, reso- 
lutely. 

“ No; for I am perfectly weU,” Lady Vera answers, impatient- 
ly. “Pray do not take up idle fancies about me, Mrs. Vance.” 

So the good lady, sighing, desists, and Countess Fairvale “ gaes 
her ain gait.” 

The bright days of September wane and fade, and October 
comes in bright and sunny. 

Eveiy day now Lady Vera looks for Lady Clive to come. Her 
spirits grow brighter at the thought. 

Sitting in the grand drawing-room one pleasant evening, with 
Mrs. Vance nodding placidly in a corner, and the soft breeze flut- 
tering the lace draperies at the open windows, she touches the 
keys of the grand piano, pouring out her sad young soul in 
plaintive melodies. Song after song thrills out upon the air, 
each one sadder and sweeter than the last, as though 

“The anguish of the singer made the sweetness of the strain ” 

Very beautiful looks Lady Vera in her thin, black robe, with 
knots of pure whit6 pansies at her throat and waist, very beauti 
ful and girlish stiU, though she is almost twenty, and a woman’s 
sorrow is written all over her lovely, mobile face, that rises like 
some fair, white lily above her somber robe. 

Memory is busy at her heart to-night. She has forgotten the 
Clevelands for a little while, and is thinking of her princely- 
looking soldier lover far away beneath those American skies 
where ner own young hfe was passed. 

She loves him still. In vain the nobles of her father’s land sue 
for her favor. 

All her heart is given to that untitled lover who comes of a 
land 


“ Where they bow not the knee, 

Save to One unto whom mqnarchsbow down.” 


60 (J0UNTES8 VERA. 

Almost unconsciously she touches the keys and sings one of 
our best loved songs: 

“ On the banks of Allan "Water 

When the sweet spring-tide did fall, 

There I saw the miller’s daughter, 

Fairest of them all ! 

For his bride a soldier sought her, 

And a winning tongue had he ; 

On the banks of Allan Water, 

None so gay as she I 

“ Oh the banks of Allan Water, 

When brown autumn spread his store, 

There I saw the miller’s daughter. 

But she smiled no more ! 

For the summer grief had brought her. 

And the soldier false was he ; 

On the banks of Allan Water, 

None so sad as she !” 

“Nay, nay, Lady Vera, a libel on the soldier,” a voice cries 
over her shoulder. 

She springs up wildly, with a startled cry: 

“ Captain Lockhart!” 


chapter xvin. 

It is Philip Lockhart, indeed, towering above her, tall, broad- 
shouldered, handsome, as if her yearning thoughts had embodied 
themselves. Lady Vera cannot keep the joy out of her voice and 
face. 

“Is it really you?” she cries, touching him gently with one 
soft, white hand, her dark eyes moist with gladness. 

“It is really Philip Lockhart,” he laughs. “I am amnt- 
coureur for Nella, who will descend upon you to-morrow, bag 
and baggage, with all the httle imps. Will you pardon me. 
Lady Fairvale, for my impudence in entering by the open win- 
dow? Your sweet music tempted me.” 

* ‘ The pleasure of seeing you so unexpectedly might weU condone 
a gi-eater offense,” she answers, smiling. 

Then she blushes deeply, for the beautiful, dark-blue eyes look 
down into her own, gravely and thoughtfully. 

“Thank you,” he answers; “I had grave doubts of a welcome, 
and you set my mind at ease. The truth is I came down with 
Lord Gordon to Sir William Spencer’s for the hunting, and Nella 
desired me to call and apprise you of her meditated descent upon 
your fold.” 

She freezes over so suddenly and subtly that he is mystified. 

“Pray sit down. Colonel Lockhart,” with the coolest courtesy. 
“All this while I have kept you standing.” 

He accepts the offered chair and his altered position brings in 
range of his sight Mrs. Vance dozing blissfully in a luxurious 
arm-chair. ® 

“ My companion,” Lady Vera explains. 

The blue eyes look at her pleadingly, with a half-smile in them. 


COUNTESS VERA. 


ei 

“Pray do not distm-b her dreams on my account. I shall be 
going directly.” 

She sits down listlessly enough on the piano-stool facing him. 
Some of the first glow of brightness has faded from her face, 
showing him the subtle change six months has made in it. The 
once bright cheek is pale and clear, the dark eyes look darker 
still by contrast with the dark purple shadows lightly outlined 
beneath them. He marvels, but dares not speak of it. 

“I am very glad Lady Clive is coming; I have been expecting 
her some time,” she observes. 

“I thought you were glad to see me at first,” he answers, 
plaintively, “but now you have frozen over again.” 

“You took me by surprise,” she replies, with dignity. “I 
thought you were not coming to England this winter. Lady 
Clive wrote me something like that.” 

“ I did not intend to come; I knew it was wiser to stay away. 
* A burnt child dreads the fire ’ you know. But something drew 
me against my will. It was like your song, Lady Vera: 

“ ‘ I strove to tear thee from my heart, 

The effort was in vain; 

The spell was ever on my life, 

And I am here again.’ ” 

The warm color flies into her face again. The lines recall that 
night when she had tried to show him her heart, and the caprice 
of a coquette had come between them. She asks, with irrepressi- 
ble pique: 

“ Was Miss Montgomery glad to see you?” 

“Glad? Why should she be?” he asks her, wondering if that 
strange discord in her va|pe can really be pique and jealousy. 
Spite of Lady Vera’s pride, it sounds marvelously like it. 

“ She liked you, I thought,” she answers, flushing under the 
steady fire of his eyes. 

“ Did she? I am sure I did not know it,” he fibs, unblushingly. 

I never thought of any other save you. Lady Vera. You were 
my only love. I have carried the rose you gave me ever since 
that night when we parted so coldly.” 

He comes nearer to her side, and taking the withered rose 
from his breast, holds it out before her gaze. She looks up 
and sees the old, warm love-light shining on her from the deep 
blue eyes. The sight makes her brave to speak. 

“ Yet if you had understood the message of the rose, we need 
not have parted at all,” she falters, low and softly, with crimson 
blushes burning her lovely face. 

“ Vera, my love, my queen !” 

He has bowed on one knee before her that he may look into the 
dark eyes so sweetly veiled beneath the drooping lashes. A 
rapturO of happiness quivers in liis voice. 

“Lady Vera, tell me, do you mean that you repented after 
all ? Did you find that my devotion had not been lavished in 
vain, and that you could give me love for love? Was that the 
message of the rose, my beautiful darling ?” 

No answer from the sweet, quivering lips, but that swift. 


62 


COUNTESS VERA. 


quickly withdrawn glance from the dewy eyes tells Lady Vera’s 
story plainer than words to her lover’s heart. 

The rose has earned its tender message at last, in spite of a 
hundred Miss Montgomerys, and if the sleepy chaperon should 
open her placid eyes now she would be shocked beyond recovery, 
for Colonel Lockhart, with all the boldness of a soldier, has 
di’awn his darling into the shelter of his arms, and pressed the 
golden head close against the brave and loyal heart that beats 
for her alone.. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Imagine Lady Clive’s delight when she learns that her brother 
is to marry her favorite, Lady Vera. 

“ It is what I most wished upon earth,” she says; “ but I had 
despaired of ever having my heart’s desire. You never acted 
much like lovers, you two.” 

“ You see I never intended to marrj^, so I did not encourage 
lovers, then,” Lady Vera explains. 

“And nowf^ Lady Clive inquires, with a roguish twinkle of 
her bright, blue eyes. 

Now I have changed my mind,” the countess exclaims, evas- 
ively. 

“Lovely woman’s divine prerogative,” laughs her friend. 
“ But do you know that malicious people will say that you have 
quite thrown yourself away in marrying a plain, untitled Amer 
ican?” 

“I am quite indifferent to what they will say,” the young 
countess replies, serenely. “ I shall have secured my own hap- 
piness, and that is the main point. For the rest, I am not anx- 
ious over titles. You know I am part American myself.” 

“Yes, I know, but this is the first time I have ever heard you 
allude to it,” Lady Clive replies. “ I fancied you were ashamed 
of the Yankee strain in your blood.” 

The sensitive color rushes warmly into Lady Vera’s cheek, 

“I was,” she admits, “but I had no need to be. My mother 
was one of^e fairest, sweetest, and purest of America’s daugh- 
ters. Yet Thad a prejudice against the people of her native land 
and mine, a girl’s prejudice that made me unjust to the many 
because I hated a few. Some day I will tell you about my life in 
America, Lady Clive, and you will understand me better, per- 
haps.” 

“ Shall you go back to the United States with Phil, or shall 
>ou prefer a life in England?” Lady Clive inquires. 

“ We have not settled that yet,” the young girl answers, blush- 
ing. 

Her face has grown very thoughtful as she speaks. A moment 
later she asks, in an altered voice: 

“ Who were those American people whom you met in Switzer- 
land, Lady Clive?” 

Lady Cnve seemed to reflect. 

“ You mean those %Tilgarly rich people?” she inquires, 

“Yes,” 


C0UNTE8S VERA. 


m 


*• My dear, I. have quite forgotten what they were called. I 
have such a poor memory for names. But no matter. You will 
see them in London this winter,” Lady Clive replies. 

And again the vexing question which she has forgotten since 
yesterday, recurs to Lady Vera’s mind: 

“ What form will my vengeance take?” 

But no faintest idea comes to her of the terrible truth. If any- 
one were to whisper it to her in these first hours of her great new 
happiness, it would surely strike her dead. The shock of pain 
would be too great for endurance. 

But fate withholds the blow as yet, and some golden days of 
peace and happiness dawn for Lady Vera. 

With Lady Clive’s arrival she inaugurates a little reign of 
gaiety that rejoices the heart of Mrs. Vance. She gives and re- 
ceives invitations. Colonel Lockhart rides over daily to spend 
long hours by his lady’s side, reading, singing, talking to each 
other in the low, sweet tones of lovers. Lord Gordon consoles 
himself ’svith Miss Montgomery, who secretly confides to him that 
she “ cannot imagine what Colonel Lockhart sees in that haughty 
Lady Fairvale.” 

“ She is beautiful,” Lord Gordon answers, loyal to his old love 
yet. 

“ I do not admire her style. She is too slim — too American in 
her looks,” Miss Moutgomery rejoins. She is inclined to embon- 
point herself, and envies every slender woman she sees. 

Lord Gordon does not dispute her charge. He is too wise for 
that. But in his heart he wonders why Lady Vera had recon- 
sidered her rejection of his friend, and wishes that he had been 
the happy man blest by her preference. 

Lady Vera, on her part, has quite forgotten the coquette’s ex- 
istence in her serene, new happiness. Philip is her love, her lord, 
her king. She forgets all else save him who holds her heart. 
The light comes back to her eyes, the roundness and color to her 
cheek. She is dazzlingly lovely in the new beauty that love 
brings to her face. 

The days pass, and they begin to talk of going up to London. 
The lovely fall weather is over, and mists and rain obscure the 
sky. They are glad to huddle around the glowing fires in the 
luxurious rooms, and Lady Clive’s thoughts begin to turn on the 
subject most dear to the fashionable woman’s heart — new dresses. 

“ Vera, you will lay aside your mourning, dear, I hope,” she 
says. “Do you know that those black dresses make yoi^ look 
too sad and thoughtful for your years? Do send Worth an order 
for something brighter — will you not ?” 

“ I vill have some white dresses, I think,” Lady Vera promises. 

“ Some of those sweet embroidered things!” Lady Clive ex- 
claims, enthusiastically. “ She will look lovely in them— don’t 
you think so, Philip ?” 

“ She looks lovely in anything,” answers the loyal lover, and 
liady Vera shivers and represses a sigh. Now and then a shadow 
from the nearingfuture falls darkly over her spiidt. The mem- 
ory of her vow of vengeance falls like an incubus over her s]>ir- 


64 COUNTESS VERA, 

It. What will Piiilip say to this strange vow of hers, she asks 
herself over and over 

She gives Worth carte Uanche for the dresses, and in a few 
weeks they go up to London, already filling up with fashion and 
beauty No one knows how regretfully Lady Vera looks back 
upon the happy hours she has spent at Fairvale Park with her 
happy lover. They see that her face is graver, but they do not 
guess her thoughts. How should they? No one dreams of that 
oath of vengeance bequeathed her by her dead father. No one 
knows how often she whispers to herself in the still watches of 
the wakeful nights: 

‘ Soon I shall be face to face with Marcia Cleveland, and must 
punish her for her wicked sins. How shall I strike her best ? 
\Vhat form will my vengeance take ?” 

* * * * * ' * * 

Invitations began to pour in upon them as soon as they were 
fairly settled at Clive House. Lady Clive decides to attend Lady 
Spencer's grand ball. 

Sir Harry objects. 

“ There will be a crush,” he says. “Lady Spencer always asks 
eve^body.” 

“Precisely why I am going,” responds his vivacious wife. 
“ Crowds always amuse me. Besides, we will see almost every- 
body who will be hereof or the season.” 

“Your countrymen, those rich Americans, wiU be there,” Sir 
Harry insinuates, maliciously. 

“ I can stand that, too,” Lady Clive retorts. “ I am not to be 
daunted by trifles. Besides, I want Pliilip and Vera to see those 
people.” 

Lady Vera says not a word, but her heart beats high, and there 
is some little triumph mingled with her thoughts. 

“Will Mrs. Cleveland and her daughter know me?” she asks 
herself. “ Will they recognize the poor girl whom they injured 
and insulted so cruelly in the wealthy and honored Countess of 
Fairvale ?” 

She selects one of her loveliest dresses— a silvery white bro- 
cade, trimmed with a broidery and fringe of gleaming pearls. 
No jewels mar the rounded whiteness of her perfect arms and 
stately throat. The waving, golden hair is piled high upon her 
graceful head, with no ornament save a cluster of velvety white 
pansies. 

“They say that my enemies’ jewels are almost barbaric in their 
splendor. I will show them that I am lovely enough to leave my 
jewels at home,” she tells herself, with some little girlish tri- 
umph. 


CHAPTER XX. 

At Darnley House on the night of Lady Spencer’s ball, all the 
devices of art and the aid of two well-nigh distracted maids are 
called in to beautify Mrs. Leslie Noble for her dehut in London 
fashionable society. Her small pale, faded face is rejuvenated 


COUNTESS VERA, 


65 


by rouge and powder, the hair-dresser furnishes a tower of straw- 
goJd puffs to crown her own sparse locks, and add dignity and 
hight to her low stature. Her dress is a chef-cV oeuvre of the Paris- 
ian man milliner— palest blue satin, with diaphanous, floating 
draperies of blue embroidered crape. A magnificent diamond 
necklace clasps her small throat. Bracelets of diamonds shine 
on her wrists, diamonds blaze in her hair, diamond clasps hold 
the azure draperies in place. From head to foot the small blonde 
sparkles with splendor, and her weak soul thrills with vanity. 
She is determined to create a sensation, and to have the incense 
of admiration poured at her shrine. 

When she has fretted and worried through the process of dreso- 
iug, and sJapped the face of one maid, and scolded the other one 
into floods of tears, she sends for her mother to come into the 
dressing-room. 

There is a little delay, and then Mrs. Cleveland sails in, gor- 
geous in crimson brocade and rubies, her black eyes shining with 
triumphant satisfaction at her own really fine appearance. But 
Ivy, absorbed in her own self, has no admiration to spare for her 
mother. 

'1 sent for you, mamma, to ask you how I look,” she says. 

These stupid women have worried me into a fever. They can do 
nothing right. Tell me, do you think any of these proud, titled 
dames will outshine me in the ball-room to-night?” 

Mrs Cleveland’s glance roves critically over the resplendent 
figure. All the appliances of wealth and art cannot hide the 
fretful, ill-natured look on the small, thin face, nor the shrewish 
light in the pale-blue eyes. 

“ Your dress is faultless — I do not believe anyone will be more 
magnificent than you,” she answers; “ but try to look more com- 
plaisant, do. Ivy. You have no idea how that fretful look mars 
the beauty of your face. Remember you will have some formid- 
able rivals to-night. The grandest and most beautiful women in 
London will be at Lady Spencer’s ball.” 

“ I am as ^.-retty as any of them,” Mrs. Noble cries, irascibly. 
"I don’t see why I am to be cautioned against my looks so much. 
An angel would lose her temper. There was Leslie to-day, telling 
me to look for my laurels, for the beauty of last season would be 
there, and cany all before her ?” 

“ The Countess of Fairvale — ^yes, I have heard that she would 
be there,” Mrs. Cleveland answers. “I am quite curious to see 
her. She is as lovely as a dream, they say, a dark-eyed blonde 
with golden hair.” 

“Leslie saw her portrait at Delany’s — the great artist, you 
know,” Mrs. Noble answers. “Would you believe he had the 
insolence to tell me she reminded him of that wretched creature 
— Vera Campbell?” 

^^She had dark eyes and fair hair, you remember,” Mrs. Cleve- , 
land answers, carelessly. 

“Yes, but the idea of comparing her to a great beauty like this 
Lady Fairvale — that girl who was no better than a servant I” Mrs. 
Noble cries, indignantly. 

“Well, well, there is no use to be jealous of the dead. Vera 


/ 


66 COUNTESS VERA. 

Campbell was beautiful, certainly, but Leslie never cared for her, 
you know,” Mrs. Cleveland answers, impatiently. 

“Precious little he cares for me, either,” her daughter com- 
plains. “ He pretended to love me once, but he has dropped even 
the pretense long ago!” 

“ What does it matter? You are his wife, and spend his money 
all the same,” Mrs. Cleveland answers, heartlessly. “ Come, ivy, 
if you mean to attend the ball to-night, it’s time to be off. For 
Heaven’s sake, smooth those ugly frowns off your face before we 
reach Lady Spencer’s, or people will think you old and ugly in 
spite of your diamonds.” 

Ivy’s pale eyes flash with rage at the cool reminder, but she is 
wise enough to know that her mother is speaking for her good. 
She dabs on a little more pearl powder, takes up her white satin 
cloak lined with snowy swan’s-down, and with a fond, farewell 
^ance into the mirror, turns to go. 

“ You need not fear for me, mamma,” she says, summoning a 
smile to her painted lips. “I shall be as bright and smiling as 
the Countess of Fairvale lierself. But I wonder where Leslie 
can be! He drank so much wine at dinner that I am afraid he is 
in no condition to attend us.” 

A door opens suddenly to her right, and Mr. Noble appears in 
full evening dress, his face somewhat flushed, but looking other- 
wise none the worse for the wine his wife deplores. He looks 
ungraciously at his resplendent wife. 

“ So you have got on all your war-paint,” he sneers. “ How 
ridiculously over-dressed you are. Ivy. You make one think of 
a jeweler’s show-window. A pity you could not have bored a 
hole through your nose, and hung a diamond there, too.” 

“A pity you drank enough wine at dinner to make you a 
drunken boor,” she retorts angrily. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Dazzling vistas of gorgeous roomn; a blaze of light and flow- 
ers everywhere: men and women in festive attire; over all, the 
throb and swell oPthe gay, sweet, maddening dance-music. 

Lady Spencer’s ball is in full blast, and as Sir Harry Clive pre- 
dicted, it is a “ crush.” But after all everyone seems to be enjo}- 
ing it, even Mrs. Noble, who, in a conspicuous position, and sur- 
rounded by a small circle of diamond- admirers, deems herself an 
acknowledged belle, and gives herself pleasant and coquettish 
little airs, accordingly. 

“I have seen no one any prettier Ilian I am,” she confides to 
her mother, in a delighted whisper. “If that Lady Fairvale is 
here she cannot be a very great beauty. Doubtless she has been 
greatly overrated. I fancy that girl over there in the pink satin 
and opals must be she. You observe she has fair hair with dark 
eyes.” 

“No; for that is Lady Alice Fordham, I am told,” Mrs. Cleve- 
land answers. “Ido no*s think the beauty has arrived yet.” 

“ Staying late in order to create a sensation,” Mrs. Noble sneers, 
then returning to her own admirers, forgets the distasteful sub- 


COUNTESS VERA. 


er 


ject for awhile in aii-ing her owtd graces with the laudabl6 intent 
of aggravating her husband, who has retired to a distant part of 
the room in supreme disgust. 

Bflt suddenly in Mrs. Noble’s vicinity an eager whisper runs 
from lip to lip, all eyes turn in one direction, a lady and gentle- 
man advancing down the center of the room are the cynosure of 
all eyes — Lady Fairvale and Colonel Lockhart. Mrs. Noble catches 
her breath in unwilling admiration. 

For surely since Adam and Eve were paired in the Garden of 
Eden, no more beautiful pair had been created than these two! 

Colonel Lockhart, to humor a whim of his sister's, appeared in 
the splendid and becoming unifoim of a colonel in the United 
States Army. His martial form and handsome face appeared 
princely in his becoming garb, and his fine, dark-blue eyes were 
sparkling with pride and happiness as they rested on the lovely 
girl who hung upon his arm with all 'the confidence of first, pure, 
innocent love. 

“ She is as lovely as a dream,” Mrs. Cleveland had said to her 
daughter, and Ivy, with a gasp of envy, is fain to acknowledge the 
truth. 

Tall, slenderly formed, with 

“ Cheek of rose and brow of pearl. 

Shadowed by many a golden curl,” 


with dark eyes radiating light beneath the drooping, ebon lashes, 
with neck and arms moulded like the gleaming white' marble of 
a sculptor’s masterpiece, and guiltless of all adornment; with 
that silvery robe sweeping about the stately form as if the mist 
of the sea had enveloped her. Lady Vera looks and moves “a 
queen,” gracious, lovely, smiling, as if the shadow of a great des- 
pair were not brooding over that golden head. 

“ Not a jewel, scarcely a flower, and yet more perfect than an 
artist’s dream,” Mrs. Cleveland whispers maliciously to her over- 
bearing daughter. 

But Ivy forgets to be angry at the little thrust. She stares at 
the beautiful vision, pale to the very lips. 

“Leslie was right,” she murmurs, like one dazed. “She 
frightens me, she is so like— so like that dead girl, Vera. Do you 
not see it, mamma?” 

“ Yes, but why should a mere chance likeness frighten you?” 
Mrs. Cleveland retorts, with subdued scorn. 

Lady Vera has not seen her enemies yet. A group of admirers 
has closed around her, and for a little while she forgets that she 
will meet here the heartless and vindictive woman who destroy- 
ed the happiness of her parents. Her lover claims her hand for 
the dance, and she passes from their sight a little space. 

Colonel Lockhart is radiant with joy and pride. The hum of 
admiration that follows his darling everywhere is music in his 


“ My darling, do you see how every eye follows you?” he whis- 
pers, fondly. , , . ^ 

But Lady Vera laughs archly in the happiness of her heart. 

“ You are mistaken. They are only adiqiring your uniform,” 


68 


COUNTESS VERA. 


she retorts, gayly, and the soldier thinks to himself that surely 
the smile upon the crimson lips is the gladdest and sweetest that 
ever rejoiced a lover's heart. 

But it fades suddenly, the glad, sweet smile, and the blush up- 
on the rounded cheek. 

The dance is over, and they are lingering together by a stand 
of rare and fragrant flowers. 

Suddenly the blush and smile fade together. A strange, stem 
look comes into the dark eyes, she drops the rose that her lover 
has just placed in her hand. 

“Vera,” he asks, looking anxiously at her, “what ails you, 
dear? You have grown so grave.” 

She looks up at him with strange eyes, from which the light 
and joy of a moment ago have faded as if they had never been. 

“ Pmlip, who is that woman over there, in the crimson bro- 
cade and rubies?” she asks, indicating the person by a slight in- 
clination of her head. 

His glance follows hers. 

“ That woman — yes, someone told me awhile ago that she was 
a countrywoman of mine, a Mrs. Cleveland. The one next her, 
in the diamonds, is her daughter.” 

Lady Vera is silent a moment, gazing steadily at the uncon- 
scious two. 

She has recognized them instantly, and only asked the ques- 
tion to “ make assurance doubly sure.” Some of the bitterness 
in the heart rises up to her face. Her lips curl in scorn. 

Colonel Lockhart regards her anxiously, puzzled by the inex- 
plicable change in her face. 

“ What is it, Vera? Do you know these people ?” he asks. 

“ How should I know them ?” she asks, trying to throw off the 
weight that has fallen on her heart. 

“Are you ill, then? These flowers are too heavy and sweet, 
perhaps. Shall I take you away ?” he inquires. 

“Not yet,” she answers. 

She continues gazing steadily at Mrs. Cleveland and her daugh- 
ter. To her heart she is saying over and over : 

“ I am face to face with my enemies at last. What form will 
my vengeance take ?” 

In a moment that question that she has asked herself so many 
times is terribly answered. 

Watching Ivy with her strange, intent gaze, she sees a gentle- 
man come up to her side. 

“Am I mad,” she asks herself, with terrible calm despair, 
“ or is it really Leslie Noble?” 

Her lover unconsciously answers the silent question. 

“You see that dark, handsome man, Vera?” he says. “His 
name is Leslie Noble. He is the husband of the lady in the 
diamonds.” 

She makes him no answer at first. Her eyes are wide and 
dark with horror. All in a moment she sees plainly the awful 
answer to the question so often asked of her sliuddering heart. 

“ Vera, indeed you are ill. Let me take you away from the 
heavy scent of these flowers,” her lover pleads. 


C0UNTE88 VERA. 69 

She starts like one waking from a dreadful dream, and clings 
to his arm. 

“ Yes, take me away,” she echoes, in a far-off voice. “ There 
are too many flowers here, and the light hurts my eyes, and the 
music my heart.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ My darling, I do not know what to think,” Colonel Lockhart 
exclaims, anxiously. “A moment ago you were so bright and 
happy — now you look pale and startled, and your words are 
strange and wild. Has anything frightened you, my darling?” 

She lifts her heavy, dark eyes almost beseechingly to his own. 

“ Philip, please do not talk to me; now,” she says. ‘ ‘ Do not ask 
me any questions. Only find me a quiet place away from the 
crowd, where I may rest awhile. I am ill.” 

“ I do not know where to find such a place, unless I take you 
into the conseiwatory. I expect it is quite deserted now,” he 
answers. 

“We %vill go there, then,” she replies. 

Troubled at heart, and very anxious over his darling. Colonel 
Lockhart leads her down through the long vistas of fragrant 
bloom to a quiet seat under a slender young palm tree. There 
are very few flowers here — only cool, green thickets of lovely, 
lace-like ferns, watered by the sparkling fountain poured from 
the hfted urn of a marble Naiad. 

“ WiU this spot suit you, Vera?” he inquires, anxiously. 

She bows, and looks at him with her grave, sad gaze. 

“Philip, you must leave me here alone for half an hour,” she 
says, “ I wish to rest awhile. Then you may come to me.” 

“You look so ill and pale I am almost afraid to leave you 
alone,” he answers. “May I not remain near you, Vera? I will 
not talk to you, nor weary you in any way. I will sit silently 
and wait your pleasure.” 

“ I would rather be alone,” she answers, wearily. 

“Then I will go, my darling, but I shall be very anxious over 
you. It will be the longest half hour of my life.” 

He stoops over her, and taking the sweet white face in his 
hands, kisses the pale, drawn lips. A stifled sob breaks from 
her at the thought that in a little while these kisses will be hers 
no longer. 

“ You are nervous, dear. Let me send my sister to you,” he 
urges. 

“I had rather be alone,” she answers. 

“ Forgive me, dear. I will go, then,” he answers, turning 
away. 

The tall form disappears in the green, flowery shrubbery. The 
echo of the firm, elastic footstep dies away. Lady Vera is alone 
at last, sitting with folded hands and dark, terrified eyes, face to 
face with the awful reality of her life’s despair. 

“ Leslie Noble, my unloved and unloving husband, is alive and 
married to his old love. Ivy Cleveland— how passing strange,” 
she murmurs, hollowly, to herself. “What strange mystery is 


70 


COUNTESS VERA. 


here? Did lie believe me dead, as I did him? Or has he, in the 
madness of his love for Ivy, recklessly plunged into sin? But if 
so, vi^hy did he bring her here tvhere they must meet me? There 
is some strange, unfathomable mystery here which I cannot pen- 
etrate.” 

Alas, poor Vera! the gloom of a subtle mysteiy wraps thee 
round, indeed, and the hand that held the key to the secret is cold 
in death. 

Low moans gurgle over her lips, and blend with the murmur 
of the fountain as it splashes musically into the marble basin. 
She is thinking of her handsome, noble lover between whose heart 
and hers a barrier has risen, wide and deep as the eternal Heaven. 

“ I must part from him, my Philip, my love!” she moans, 
“ for in the sight of God I am Leslie Noble’s wife, even though 
before men he is Ivy Cleveland’s husband.” 

She bows her face in her hands, and bitter, burning tears 
stream through her fingers. In all the hours when she has 
brooded over that oath of vengeance made by her father’s death- 
bed, no slightest thought has come to her in what terrible way 
she must keep her vow, and at what fearful cost to her life’s nap- 
piness. 

“ What strange prescience came to my father in dying?” she 
asks herself, in wonder. “ How strangely his words were shaped 
to fit the awful reality. I must punish Marcia Cleveland through 
her dearest affections, he said. All her heart is centered on Ivy, 
and when I claim Leslie Noble from her and cover her head with 
that awful shame, my father’s wishes will be fulfilled. And lest 
I should falter in my dreadful task, he added that last clause, no 
matter at what cost to myself. Oh, God! what will Philip say 
when he learns the truth? The way is plain before me how to 
keep my vow. I, who loathe and despise Leslie Noble, must 
claim him before God and man as my husband, and humiliate 
Ivy Cleveland to the dust. In no other way can I pirnish Marcia 
Cleveland and avenge my mother’s wrongs.” 

“ In no other way,” the fountain seems to echo, as it splashes 
musically down, and Lady Vera, turning coward now in the face 
of the terrible future, prays in bitterest agony: “Oh, God! if I 
could die — die here and now, with Philip’s last fond kiss still 
warm upon my lips, before I have to speak the dreadful words 
that will doom us to a living death in life.” 

With an effort she shakes off, presently, the hoiTor and dread 
and shrinking repugnance with which she looks forward to the 
fulfillment of her oath. 

“ Mother, forgive me,” she weeps. “Do I not remember all 
your bitter wrongs and mine, and how often my young heart 
burned to avenge them ? And shall I shrink back now when the 
flaming sword is in my hand, and I am able to crush your enemy 
into the dust? No, no ! What matter if it breaks my heart? 
My gentle mother, yours was broken, too. ' And though I tread 
on burning plow-shares, I will keej^ my oath of vengeance.’* 

No faltering ; no looking back now. Something of her 
father’s haughty spirit is infused into Lady Vera’s soul. Her 
dark eyes light with the strange fire that burns on the altar of 


COUNTESS VEEA. n 

her heart, and when her lover conies anxiously to seek her, she 
has recovered all her usual calmness, and greets him with a 
smile. 

“You are better, dear?” he exclaims, 

“Yes, and we will return to the ball-room now,” she answers, 
resting her icy fingers lightly against his arm. 

Passing from the subdued light of the conservatory into the 
glare of the ball-room, they come face to face with Leslie, with 
Ivy hanging on his arm, flushed and heated from the dance. ' 
Lady Vera lifts her head with stag-like gi'ace, and looks steadily 
info their eyes, but beyond an insolent stare from Ivy, and a 
glance of warm admiration from the man, they give no sign of 
recognition. Lady Vera passes on, and Lady Clive comes up to 
her, laughing. 

“ My dear, you have seen our country people — the rich Amer- 
icans,” she says. “ How do you like them?” 

“ I will teU you some day,” she answers, in a strange tone, yet 
with a careless smile. 

Still later in the evening Lady Spencer seeks out the countess. 

“Dear Lady Fairvale, will you allow me to introduce to you 
our American guests?” she asks. “They are most anxious to 
know the beauty of the season.” 

Lady Vera, growing pale as her white robe, draws her slight 
form proudly erect. 

“Pray, pardon my rudeness, Lady Spencer,” she answers, 
coldly. ‘ ‘ But I must decline. I do not wish to know them.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Society, which likes nothing better than a bit of gossip, com- 
mented considerably on the Countess of Fairvale’s refusal to 
know the rich Americans. There were some who blamed her 
and thought she was over-nice and proud. The American Con- 
sul vouched for their respectability, and their style of living at- 
tested to their wealth. What more could she desire? Eveiyone 
else received them on equal terms. Why did Lady Vera hold 
out so obstinately against s^Deaking to them? It could only be a 
girl’s foolish whim — nothing more, for she assigned no reason 
for her refusal. 

But it created some little embarrassment at first. People did 
not like to invite the countess and the Americans together for 
fear of an unpleasant collision. They could not slight Lady 
Vera, and they did not wish to offend the Americans. The affair 
was quite unpleasant, and created some little notoriety. 

“ And after all, Lady Vera’s mother was an American, and she 
was born in the United States herself. Why should she hold 
herself above one of her own country people?” said one of the 
knowing ones. 

• No one could answ^er the question, and least of all the Ameri- 
cans themselves, who were secretly galled and humiliated almost 
beyond endurance by the scorn and indifference of the proud and 
beautiful young girl. „ . , 

Mr. Noble was sorely chafed by Lady Vera’s course. He had 


COUNTESS VERA. 



conceived a great admiration for her, and desired to hear her 
talk, that he might learn if her voice as well as her face resem- 
bled his dead wife, Vera, the girl who had committed suicide 
rather than be an unloving wife. Mrs. Cleveland, who had de- 
sired to know her because she was the fashion just then, was 
very angry , too, but Ivy took it the hardest of all. She consid- 
ered it a deliberate and malicious affront to herself. 

“ The proud minx!” she said, angrily. “ In what is she better 
than I am that she should refuse to know me? I shall ask her 
what she means by it.” 

“You will do no such thing,” Mrs. Cleveland cries out, startled 
by the threat. “You would make yourself perfectly ridiculous! 
We will pass it over in utter silence, and show her that we can- 
not be hurt by such foolish airs as she gives herself.” 

“ I am as good as she. I will not be trampled upon!” Ivy re- 
torts, venomously. “What! is she made of more than common 
clay because she has gold hair and black eyes, and a pink and 
white face like a doll? It is all false after all, I have no doubt. 
Her hair is bleached by the golden fluid, and her red and white 
bought at Madame Blanche’s shop!” 

“People who live in glass houses should never throw stones,” 
interpolates her lord and master, thus diverting her wrath a mo- 
ment from Lady Vera and drawing it down upon his own devoted 
head. 

******** 

But no one is more surprised at Vera's course than her lover. 
Colonel Lockhart. 

It is when they have gone home from Lady Spencer’s ball, and 
he detains her one moment in the drawing-room to say good- 
night, that he asks her anxiously: 

“Vera, my darling, what story lies behind vour refusal to 
know these people to-night ?” 

He feels the start and shiver that runs over the graceful form 
as he holds her hand in his own. She looks up at him with such 
a white and despairing face that he is almost frightened. 

“ Oh, Philip,” she cries, in a voice of the bitterest pain, “ I wish 
you had not asked me that question yet. Believe me, you will 
know too soon.” 

“ Then there is a story!” he exclaims. 

“Yes,” she answers, wearily. “But, Philip, let me go now. 

I am very tired. You do not know all that I have borne to- 
night.” 

He folds the beautiful figure closely in his arms, and kisses the 
white eyelids that droop so wearily over the sad, dark eyes. 

“ Forgive me for troubling you, darling,” he says, tenderly. 

“ I do not wish to force your confidence, Vera. Only believe me, 
my own one, every sorrow that rends your heart causes me un- 
happiness, too.” 

She lies still against that loyal heart one moment— oh, happy 
haven of rest, never to be hers I then struggles from him with 
one last, lingering kiss, and goes to her room and her sleepless 
couch to brood alone in that dark, darlj: hour that comes before 
the dawn, over the terrible discovery she has made, 


COUNTESS VERA. 73 

For Colonel Lockhart the hours pass sleeplessly, too. The 
shadow of Veras unknown sorrow lies heavily upon his heart. 

He rises early, and long before the late breakfast hour Lady 
Vera’s maid brings him a sealed note. He tears it hastily open, 
and her betrothal ring falls sparkling into his hand. 

“ Dear Philip,” she writes, “ I return your ring. A terrible 
barrier has risen between us that all our love can never bridge 
over. So we must part. And, oh ! believe me, dearest, it breaks 
my heart to write it. One thing I would ask you,. Philip— will 
you go away from here and save me the sorrow of meeting you 
again ? I can bear my misery and my impending shame far bet- 
ter if I cannot see you whom I have so fondly loved, and must 
so fatefully resign. 

“Your Wretched Vera.” 

“ Has my darling grown mad?” the handsome soldier asks him- 
self, staring almost stupidly at the note and the ring in his hand. 
“What shame can touch her, my beautiful, pure-hearted one? 
She is going to be ill, perhaps, and this is but the vagary of a 
mind diseased.” 

So he writes back impulsively: 

‘ ‘ Vera, let me see you for even ten minutes. Surely, my darling, 
you do not mean what you say. What shame can touch you, my 
innocent love? And why should you wish to send me away? Is 
it not my right and duty and desire to stand by your side through 
all the trials of life? 

“ ‘ Oh! what was love made for if ’tis not the same, 

Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?’ 

“ Do not ask me to leave you, darling. If indeed sorrow and 
trouble are near you, my place is by your side. I will wait for 
you half an hour in the library. Do not fail me, dear. I want 
to put your ring back upon your finger. 

“Your Own Philip.” 

Lady Vera weeps bitterly over her lover’s note. 

“Ah, he does not know, he does not dream of the fatal truth,” 
she moans, wildly. “And what can I say to him? I cannot, I 
will not tell him. I could not do it. I should die of the shame. 
He will know too soon as it is. And yet I must go to him. He 
will not be denied. Oh! what shall I say to him, my poor boy?” 

Weeping and lingering, dreading to go, the half-hour is almost 
up before she drags herself to the library where Philip is pacing 
up and down the floor in a fever of doubt and suspense. 

“ Vera, my darling,” he cries. “ Oh, how could you treat me 

so cruelly?” , , , j 

She pauses with her arms folded over the back of a chair, and 
regards him sorrowfully. Colonel Lockhart can see that she has 
been weeping bitterly. Her tremulous lips part to answer him, 
then close without a sound. 

He goes up to her and takes one white, jeweled hand fondly 
into his own. 

“Tell me what troubles you, Vera,” he whispers gently. 

“ Can you not guess, Philip? It is because I must part from 
you.” she answers sadly. 


'4 


C0UNTE88 VERA, 


“But why must you do so, Vera?” he asks, gravely, touched 
to the heart by her drooping and despondent attitude. 

“ I cannot tell you,” she answers sadly, with a heavy sigh. 

“ Perhaps you have ceased to love me,” her lover exclaims, al- 
most sternly. 

She starts and fixes her dark eyes reproachfully on his face, 

“ Oh, would that I had!” she exclaims. “ This parting would 
then be easier to bear! ” 

They regard each other a moment with painful intentness. 
The marks of misery on her face are too plain to be mistaken, and 
the wonder deepens on his own. 

“ Vera, why are you so mysterious ?” he asks, anxiously. “ If 
you throw me over like this, I have at least a right to know the 
reason why.” 

“You shall know — soon,” she answers, almost bitterly. 

Then she lifts her eyes to his face pleadingly. 

“ Oh, Philip, do not torture me,” she cries wildly. “We must 
part! There is no help nor hope for us! A terrible barrier has 
risen between us! I have a terrible duty to perform, and there 
is no turning back for me. But, oh, Philip, if I could persuade 
you to go away now — at once — where you might never hear or 
know the fatal secret that has confe between us! Darling, let me 
beg you,” she falls suddenly on her knees before him, “to take 
me at my word and put the whole width of the world between 
us!” 

He lifts her up and wipes the streaming tears from her beauti- 
ful eyes. 

“ My darling, you make it hard for me to refuse you,” he an- 
swers, in sorrow and perplexity, “ but do you think I could be 
coward enough to desert you when trouble and sorrow hung 
over your head? I am a soldier, Vera. I cannot show the white 
feather. If sorrow comes I will be by your side and help you to 
bear it.” 

“ Tou, of all others, could help me the least,” she answers, 
brokenly. 

And again his noble, handsome face clouds over with wonder 
and sorrow. 

“ I will try, at least,” he answers, with sad firmness. “ Do not 
ask me to leave you, Vera, I cannot do it. Oh, darling, are you 
sure, ^uite sure, that we need really pai't? That you cannot be 
'my wife?” 

“ I am as sure of it as if one or the other of us lay at this mo- 
ment in the coffin,” she answers, drearily. 

“And that barrier, Vera, will it always stand?” he asks. 

“Always, unless death should remove it,” she answers, with a 
shudder; and with a moan, she continues: “ Once I believed that 
death had akeady stricken it from my path, and I was so happy, 
Philip — happy in your love and mine. But the grim specter of 
the past has risen to haunt me. I can never be your wife. I can 
never know one moment’s happiness in life again.” 

“ She is ill and desperate,” Colonel Lockhart tells himself, 
uneasily. “ Surely things cannot be so bad as she represents. 
She exaggerates her trouble. When I come to know the truth I 


COUNTESS VERA. 


75 


shall find that it is some simple thing that her girlish fears have 
magnified a hundredfold. I must not let her drive me away 
from her. I may be of service to her in her trouble.” 

Aloiid he says, gently: 

“ Since I may no longer be your lover, Vera, you will let me 
be your friend?” 

“Since you wish it, but you will change your mind soon,” she 
answers, hopelessly. 

“ I think not,” he answers, lifting her hand gently to his lips, 
and then she turns away, meeting Lady Clive upon the threshold 
coming in. 

“ Vera, my dear, 'how ill you look,” she exclaims. “ Has any- 
thing happened? Ah, Phil, are you there? What have you saM 
to Vera? You are not having a lover’s quarrel, I hope?” 

He makes her no answer, but Vera, turning back, throws her 
arms around her friend’s neck, and lifts her pale, beseeching 
face. 

“ I will tell you what has happened. Lady Clive,” she answers. 
“I have broken my engagement v/ith Philip.” 

“Broken your engagement with Philip? Why, what has he 
done?” Lady Clive exclaims. 

“ Nothing,” Lady Vera answers, meekly as a child. 

“Nothing?” the lady repeats, half-angrily. “Nothing? Then 
why have you thrown him over. Lady Vera? Did you tire of 
him so soon? I did not know that you were a flirt.” 

“ Hush, Nella, you shall not blame her,” her brother exclaims, 
sternly. 

“You see Philip is not angry with me. Lady Clive,” Vera 
says, entreatingly. “ Indeed I am not a flirt. I love him dearly, 
but I cannot be his wife. There are reasons,” she almost chokes 
over the word, “ that — that you will know soon. You will see I 
was not to blame. Oh, Lady Clive, do not be angry with me.” 

“ I will not, dear,” answers the gentle-hearted lady, kissing 
the sweet, quivering lips of the wretched girl. “ I do not un- 
derstand you, but if PhiKp is not angry with you, neither can 
I be. Yet I am very sorry that I shall not have you for my 
sister.” 

With a stifled sob Lady Vera breaks from her clasp and flies up 
to her own room. She does not appear at breakfast. 

At luncheon she is so pale and sad and wretched-looking that 
it makes one’s heart ache to see her. 

At night they attend a ball, from which Colonel Lockhart ex- 
cuses himself on the plea of indisposition, and at which the rich 
Americans also fail to put in an appearance. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

The invitations for Mrs. Vernon’s lawn-party had been issued 
at least a fortnight, and but fev/ people had declined them. 

It was well known that she gave charming entertainments, and 
people were always eager to attend. A lawn-party, too, was so 
romantic, “ too sweet for anything,” declared the young women 
who adored those out-of-door entertainments where the most 


76 


COUNTESS VERA. 


flagrant flirtations were possible, and where the plainest faces 
acquired a certain beauty from the blended light of lamp-light 
and moonlight, and the flickering leaf-shadows cast by the over- 
ai;ching trees. 

Older people dreaded the night-air and the dew, but to these 
the drawing-rooms were always open, so that no one dreamed of 
declining Mrs. Vernon’s elegant cards. 

Lady Clive was present that evening, her fair and stately beauty, 
so like her brother’s, thrown into perfect relief by a robe of blue 
and silver, with pale, gleaming pearls around her graceful throat 
and white arms. 

Lady Vera wore white satin and tulle, with water-lilies here 
and there, a beautiful dress that was most becoming to her, and 
made her look regal as a young princess. 

A flush of excitement glowed upon her cheeks, and her eyes 
were bright and restless with a strange look of expectancy and 
almost dread in their beautiful depths. 

The constant thought in her mind was: 

“I shall see my enemies to-night. What will be the result? 
They pretend to regard me as a perfect stranger. What shame- 
less audacity. I cannot understand how they can carry it out so 
boldly. And yet God knows that but for my oath of vengeance 
I would never speak. Ivy might have my husband and welcome. 
Yet I would give much to know whose death it was I read in 
that American paper. Leslie Noble’s father, perhaps, though I 
had some vague idea that he was dead long ago.” 

Colonel Lockhart is present too, this evening, ever watchful, 
ever near his darling, though without the least appearance of in- 
trusiveness. 

Other lovers take his place by her side, but as usual she is calm 
and cold to all. 

She is done with love and lovers, she tells herself with sad self- 
pity. 

All her future life will lie in the dun, gray twilight of sorrow. 

“ As the blade wears the scabbard, 

The billow the shore; 

So sorrow doth fret me 
Forevermore!” 

It is late in the evening before Colonel Lockhart ventures to 
address her. 

Then something in her glance has drawn him to her side, in 
spite of his determination not to intrude upon her. 

Lady Eva Clarendon and Miss Montgomery are present, and 
both have laid some claims to his attention. In spite of herself, 
Lady Vera cannot keep the pain out of her eyes, and Philip, 
watching her with the keenness of love, is quick to see it. In a 
moment he is by her side. 

“Will you promenade with me?” he asks, deferentially. 

A sudden smile of irrepressible pleasure lights the beautiful 
face. She loves him dearly, and it is so hard to give him up. 

Rising, she lays her white hand on his arm, and they move 
away together down a quiet path under the shade of the leafy 


COUNTESiS VEHA. E 77 

\trees liung with gayly-colored lamps, whose checkered light 
\lvrows their faces now in brightness, now in shadow. 

\Tlie scene, the hour, is full of romance. Tall marble vases 
here and there are crowded with fragrant flowers, whose sweet- 
ness makes breathing a perfect delight. The moon is at its full, 
pouring down a flood of pure white radiance that makes the 
glimmering light of the lamps seem garish and unnecessary. 
iSoft music rises, blent with the sound of happy voices, and a 
[nightingale has perched itself on a rose tree near by, and is 

“ Pouring his full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.” 

They walk slowly on, speaking little, but with hearts that trem- 
ble with mingled pain and pleasure. The presence of each to the 
other is perilously sweet. In his mind runs the refrain of a song 
she had sung that evening: 

“ Beloved eye! beloved star, 

Thou art so near and yet so far.” 

Suddenly, in turning a curve in the path, they come face to 
face with a couple waUiing from the opposite direction — Leslie 
Noble and his wife. 

The small blonde is attired in an elaborate costume of white 
and green, and the snaky fire of emeralds blaze round her throat 
and wrists. Her pale eyes glare with a snaky anger, too, as they 
light upon the beautiful young countess, looking bride-lflje in 
her rich, white dress, and the white lace scarf that she has care- 
lessly thrown over her golden hair. 

With an impulsive movement Ivy disengages her hand from 
her husband’s arm, and places herself directly in Vera’s way, her 
pale eyes flashing with rage, her head held high, her slight figure 
drawn erect, making the most of her insignificant stature. 

“ Lady Fairvale,” she exclaims, insolently, “they tell me you 
refuse to know me or my husband, or my mother. Will j^u 
tell me the reason why?” 

There is a dead pause, and Leslie Noble tries to drag his wife 
away, but she defies him. 

“ i shall not go I” she answers, sharply. “ I told you I would 
do it. I have asked this proud lady the reason of her scorn., 
and I am waiting for an answer.” 

Lady Vera faces her a moment in scornful silence, but her 
pallid cheeks, her intense gaze, and her curling lips, all betray 
the tumult in her breast. She turns to Captain Lockhart, with 
a soul’s despair in her lovely eyes. 

“Philip, will you go away, and leave me alone with this 
woman ?” she asks, pleadingly. 

It seems to him that Vera does not know what is best for her- 
self. How can he go away, and leave her to bear the bruht of 
this coarse woman’s fury alone ? 

“Forgive me for refusing you, dear,” he whispers back, “but 
it is better that I should stay. I cannot leave you without a 
friend by your side.” 

A look of futile despair flashes over the lovely face, but sliO 


'8 


COUNTESS VERA.. 


urges hiui no more. Her eyes turn from his handsome, tendea* 
face to meet Ivy’s angry, insolent gaze. 

“I ask you again, Lady Fairvale,” exclaims the small fury, 
“ why do you refuse to speak to us ?” 

“Oh, God, give me strength,” Lady Vera prays, silently, '‘to 
keep the oath of vengeance made to my dying father!” 

The memory of her parent’s cruel wrongs flashes into her 
mind and steels her heart. She remembers her mother’s broken 
heart, her father’s ruined life, her own joyless, slavish ^rlhood, 
driven by these two women who now stand glaring stonily upon 
her, for Mrs. Cleveland, coming in search of her daughter, has 
become a sudden and amazed spectator of the curious scene. 

“I will tell why I hold myself above you,” Lady Vera answers, 
in a voice that quivers with scornful indignation. “ It is be- 
cause you are false and vile — a guilty woman, and a shameless 
sinner!” 

“ How dare you traduce me thus?” Mrs Noble shrieks, in anger 
and amazement. 

“I dare, because I speak "the truth before God,” her enemy 
answers, fearlessly. “How dare you claim to be Leslie Noble’s 
wife, when you know that I, his first wife, Vera Campbell, am 
living?” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

It wa^ a striking tableau, there beneath the over-arching trees 
that fair, calm, summer night. Lady Vera’s beautiful face was 
all pale vuth passionate scorn and indignation as she leaned up- 
on her lover’s arm. Her enemies had started back as her scath- 
ing accusation fell upon them, and they now regarded her with 
looks of wrath, blent with honest astonishment. Colonel Lock- 
hart’s face had turned to a dull, ashen gray, like the pallor of 
death, but he stood his ground bravely, like the soldier that he 
Hf,s. Lady Vera did not dare to look at him, but beyond one 
swift, convulsive start, as though a sword had pierced his heart, 
the arm that supported her did not even tremble. He had steel- 
ed himself to bear his pain and make no sign. 

“Colonel Lockhart,” Mrs. Cleveland exclaims, starting boldly 
to the front, “ I would advise you to take Lady Fairvale home to' 
her friends. She must surely be raving mad. I know not how 
she came into possession of any facts conceraing us, but I swear 
to you, and can prove my assertion, that Vera Campbell, the first 
wife of my son-in-law, Leslie Noble, has been dead and buried 
three years. Is it not so, Leslie?” 

“ It is perfectly true,” he answers, gazing curiously at the 
beautiful girl who has claimed him as her husband. “If Lady 
Fairvale be Vera Campbell Noble, then she has risen from the 
gi’ave itself to claim me, for I saw her l^uried three years ago, 
and I erected a costly marble monument to her memory.” 

“She committed suicide!” Ivy screams out, spitefully. “She 
died in my mother’s house. I saw her lying dead, and I saw her 
buried.” 

“ Oh, shameless falsehood !” Vera breaks out, warmly, “ I did 


COUNTESS VERA. 


19 


not die, and you know it. The bitter dru^ with which I thought 
to end my wretched life, turned out to be only a sleeping potion 
after all. Will you deny, Marcia Cleveland, that Lawrence 
Campbell came to you that night to denounce you for the false- 
hood with which you had betrayed him, and to ask, at your 
hands, his wronged wife and child ?” 

Livid with rage and fear, the wicked woman stares at her 
fearless accuser. How has this beautiful countess, with Vera 
Campbell’s face, learned the secret of her past life ? 

“ Lady Fairvale,” she answers, “ I do not know how you, a 
stranger, have learned the secrets of my past life, but I will an- 
swer your questions fairly and truthfully. Lawu*ence Campbell 
did indeed come to me as you asseii, but his daughter had been 
buried that very day in Glenwood. I bade him seek his wife 
and child in the grave, and he fell down like one dead at my 
feet. I caused my servants to throw him into the street like a 
dog, and I know not, to this day, if he living or dead.” 

“He is dead,” Lady Vera answers, \^th blazing eyes. “ He 
has been dead almost a year. He lived but for vengeance on you, 
Marcia Cleveland, and when he died, he bade me sweai’ an oath 
of vengeance on you. He bade me avenge my martyred broth- 
er’s bitter wrongs. It is for this I have spoken. Do you think I 
did not shrink from claiming that craven coward there,” pointing 
a scornful finger, “ as my husband?” 

Flushing scarlet under her hghtning scorn, Leslie Noble ad- 
vances. 

“ Lady Fairvale, if indeed you are my wife,” he says, “ and,” 
insolently, “ no man could have a wife more beautiful, will 
you tell me by what strange chance you were rescued from 
the grave where I, myself, saw you laid?’* 

“ I deny that I was ever buried,” Vera flashes out angrily. 
“ My father told me nothing of that. He declared that he had 
me carried away from Mrs. Cleveland’s in a deep narcotic sleep. ” 

“ Is it true that Lawrence Campbell was the Earl of Fairvale? 
Mrs. Cleveland demands, looking at Colonel Lockhart. 

“It is perfectly true, madam,” he answered, coldly. 

“And it is true that I am his daughter, whom you and your 
daughter so shamefully abused and maltreated?” Vera cries. 
“Do you remember. Ivy Cleveland, how you abused and in- 
sulted me? How you struck me in the face that night when my 
mother lay dead in the house? Do you recall your anger because 
she had died before ihe embroidery was finished on your Surah 
polonaise? Do you remember, Leslie Noble, how you stood by 
the bedside of that dying saint, and swore to protect and love the 
unconscious child you married! Ah, well you kept your vov/ 
when you plotted with that wicked woman j^onder to send me 
from you to a convent school where I should be tortured to 
death, so that you should go free. That was her wicked scheme, 
I know, for she had planned to marry you to Ivy. Now you know 
why I tried to escape from you into the merciful land of death. 
But Heaven spared me the commission of that sin. It was not 
poison I took. I made a mistake in the drug. I lived to drag 
you down to the dust, Marcia Cleveland; to punish you through 


so 


COUNTESS VERA, 


your daughter’s shame for my parents’ wrongs and mine I Yon 
understand now why I would not speak to you, Ivy Cleveland! 
That man there whom I utterly loathe and despise, is my hus- 
band, although I would not bear his name for wealth untold. You 
are a false and sinful woman unfit to mate with the pure and 
true, knowing yourself to be only the reputed wife of a bigam- 
istl ” 

The torrent of passionate accusation comes to a sudden end, 
and Lady Vera, with heaving breast and dilated eyes, looks con- 
tempt upon her foes. They stand before her awed and silent for 
a moment. Her scathing words have carried conviction to their 
hearts. They know her in truth to be that Vera whom for three 
long years they have believed to be sleeping under the costly 
marble that bears her name in Glenwood Cemetery. But they 
will never admit it. To do that would be to throw up the game 
and own themselves beaten and vanquished. 

A curious crowd of ladies and gentlemen have gathered around 
attracted by the sound of excited voices. With wonder and dis- 
may they listen to the scathing denunciations that fall from the 
lips of the beautiful countess. Mrs. Cleveland, fully conscious 
of the curious eyes, turns around and makes reply to them — not 
Lady Vera. 

“My friends,” she cries, with uplifted hands and a face of 
horror, “surely this beautiful lady has lost her mind. She is 
stark, staring mad, and for this I can forgive her the insults she 
has heaped upon my daughter. I believe she is a clever adven- 
turess whom Lawrence Campbell has foisted on the world as his 
heiress. Vera, the real daughter of the Earl of Fairvale, died 
three years ago in Washington. She is buried at Glenwood be- 
neath a marble monument that bears her name and age. I swear 
before God that this is true. This girl here, this pretended 
Countess of Fairvale, is, without doubt, a clever impostor, who 
is keeping the Earl’s true heir out of his own. Let her disprove 
this charge if she can. If she be truly Vera Campbell, let her 
prove that she was resurrected from the grave in Glenwood 
where my own eyes saw her laid.” 

A moment of perfect silence follows Mrs. Cleveland’s venomous 
words. Her daughter, who is a coward at heart in spite of all 
her bravado, has fallen back a pace, allowing her mother to be 
spokesman, well knowing that not even herself could so valiantly 
defend her cause. 

There is a look of fear and dread on Ivy’s face that gives her a 
ghastly look in spite of her paint and powder. 

Lady Vera’s words have carried conviction to her heart, and in 
fancy she sees herself deserted and abandoned by the man whom 
she believed her husband, and whom she has relentlessly tyi'an- 
nized over, recklessly dissipating his fortune, and trampling on 
his heart. 

She well knows that every spark of love he ever entertained 
for her had died long ago, murdered by her own heartless, un- 
loving course toward him. What more natuml than that he 
should rejoice if his bonds fell from him and left him free from 


COUNTESS VEMA. 81 

her mother and herself, who had been fastened upon liim like 
human vampires, draining his very heart’s blood. 

She glances at him, and that glance does not reassure her. 
There is a strange expression on his face, and he is not looking at 
her, but at the beautiful, high-born girl who has just claimed 
him as her husband, albeit with words of scorn. 

Even while she gazes at him in fear and terror he steps for- 
ward with a certain craftiness in his eyes, and answers Mrs. 
Cleveland’s angry words. 

“You speak too harshly, perhaps, Mrs. Cleveland. I have been 
impressed, even against my will, by Lady Fairvale’s words. 
She is certainly possessed of knowledge that no one but Vera 
Campbell could have known. Then, too, she is startlingly like 
my deaa wife, both in voice and person. Although I certainly 
buried my first wife and raised a costly monument over her 
grave, I am still willing to investigate the strange charges of Lady 
Fairvale. Strange things have happened sometimes. The dead 
have come to life, the lost have been found. ‘ Let justice be done 
though the heavens fall.’ ” 

“Wretch! Would you turn traitor to me?” screams Ivy, 
clutching him violently by the arm, forgetful of all but her fear 
of losing him. 

He gazes down at hen in a feigned sympathy and sorrow. 

“My poor Ivy. Could you think so meanly of me?” he ex- 
claims. “ But think, dear. How could we rest secure with this 
terrible charge lianging over us? Were it not better that I 
should take steps to prove the truth or falsity of this fair lady’s 
bold accusation?” 

“Take steps — ^how?” the bejeweled little woman falters con- 
fusedly. 

“ Nothing easier,” he answers. “I shall cable to Washington 
to have my first wife’s grave opened. If her remains are found 
undisturbed, then you are still my wife. Ivy, and this lady’s 
story is an imposture. But if Vera’s grave be found empty, I 
shall be forced to believe that Lady Fairvale is in sober reality 
the Vera whom, for three years, we believed dead and buried.” 

He speaks to Ivy, but he looks at Vera. Something in that 
glance makes her turn pale and flash a glance of silent scorn 
upon him. 

“ She is not Vera. She is an impostor whom Lawrence Camp- 
bell put into the place of his dead daughter,” Ivy screams, im- 
petuously, clinging to him with both hands. “ Come away from 
her, Leslie. She is a false and wicked woman, and we will yet 
prove her so — will we not, mamma?” 

“ Yes, it shall be war to the knife between us,” Mrs. Cleveland 
mutters, menacinglv, flinging a glance of deadly hatred upon 
Lady Vera’s pale and lovely face. “Come away now, Leslie, 
and bring Ivy home. She is too slight and frail to bear all this 
excitement.” 

Silently obeying the imperious will that has ruled him tor 
almost three years, Leslie Noble moves away with Ida on his 
arm, after a courteous bow to Vera, which she returns with a 
cold stare of contempt. 


82 


COUNTESS VEBA. 


“ Lady Vera, shall I take you away also ? You look weary and 
exhausted,” says Colonel Ix)ckhart, in a low voice that shows 
intense self -repression and emotion. 

She starts and shivers at the sound of his voice. 

If you will be so kind,” she answers, sadly, and moving away 
on his supporting arm she meets Lady Clive and Mrs. Vernon 
coming toward her. Their grave faces show instantly that they 
know aU. Lady Vera pauses, with a strange, cold smile. 

“ Mrs. Vernon, I am sure you will never forgive me for my ur> 
dignified act in creating an excitement and a sensation at your 
party. I was compelled to keep my oath to the dead. Yet she 
forced it on me. I did not mean to speak — just yet,” she fal- 
ters, incoherently, and Mrs. Vernon, who is the kindest woman 
alive, presses her hand, and murmurs gently, “ Poor darling,” 
while Lady Clive murmurs tenderest words of sympathy and 
love. 

It is too much for Lady Vera — this gentleness and love after 
the exciting scene through which she has passed. Her forced 
calmness and self-control give way beneath its softening spell. 

She reels dizzily, and only Colonel Lockhart’s support prevents 
her from falling. In a moment he says to his sister, anxiously : 

“ She has fainted, Nella. What shall we do ?” 

“ Bring her up-stairs into my boudoir,” replies Mrs. Vernon, 
promptly and kindly. “We will revive her directly.” 

But Lady Clive negatives the proposal, decidedly. 

“ No, we will put her into the carriage and take her home,” 
she says. “She will come to herself, directly. It is a blessed 
unconsciousness for her, poor girl. Why should we call her 
back to remembrance too soon ?” 

So the soldier lifts her in his strong and tender arms, and bears 
her to the carriage. Lady Clive receives the drooping head upon 
her lap, and they roll homeward. Lady Vera lying pale and mute 
between them like some pure, white lily, broken and beaten 
down by the force of the pitiless storm. 

“ This is hard lines upon you, Phil,” Sir Harry Clive says, from 
his corner. 

“Yes,” his brother-in-law answers, in a low voice, and they 
speak no more untU low sighs, rippling over Lady Vera’s lips, 
presage her return to consciousness. 

She lifts her head and looks at them, then drops her face in 
her hands, and bursts into passionate sobs and tears. 

Lady Clive folds her wmte arms fondly around the heaving 
form. 

“Do not weep so wildly, darling Vera,” she whispers, gently. 

But the heavy sobs only break forth more tumultuously. 

“Do not check me,” she whispers, “let me weep. Perhaps 
these tears may save my heart from breaking. There is such a 
terrible weight on heart and brain, and has been for weary, 
weary days. Let me weep until I can weep no more, and then I 
may be calm enough to tell you aU my wretched story. Then 
yon may know how to pardon my act of to-night.” 

So Lady Chve expostulates no more, only holds the slight form 
closer in her tender arms, reckless of the raining tears that spot 


COUNTESS VERA. 83 

and stain her azure satin robe as the burning drops fall on it 
from Vera’s eyes. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

When Lady Vera has told all her story to these kind and 
sympathizing friends with all the fire and eloquence of passion, 
their indignation bursts forth unrestrainedly. Lady Clive weeps 
from pure sympathy. 

“Now at last I understand Fairvale’s strange reticence and 
melancholy,” Sir Harry Clive exclaims. “He was indeed most 
cruelly wronged, and Marcia Cleveland must have been a fiend 
incarnate.” 

Colonel Lockhart alone says nothing. He sits a little apart, 
his arms folded over his broad breast, his blue eyes cast to the 
fioor, a look of gloom and settled despair on his handsome, high- 
bred face. The bitter pain at his heart no tongue can tell. 

“ And all this while you were Leslie Noble’s wife,” Lady CHve 
says, with a heavy sigh for her brother’s sake. 

“ But I believed him dead, you know,” Lady Vera answers, 
with one swift glance at the lover she has lost. 

“ I wish he had been, for your sake and Phil’s,” pronounces 
Sir Harry, fervently, and a moan of pain surges over the pale 
lips of the beautiful girl. 

“ Ah, you cannot guess with what feelings of despair I learned 
of him living,” she answers. “It seemed to me for one awful 
moment that a hand of ice clutched my heart, and that I should 
surely die. It came over me like a death-warrant, at what fear- 
ful cost to myself I should keep my oath to my father. But I 
had sworn to do his bidding. There was no turning back for me 
when the fatal moment came.” 

She pauses a moment, then resumes, with a mournful glance at 
Lady CUve: 

“You wiU never forgive me, I know, for making myself a sen- 
sation and a town talk, Lady Clive. By to-morrow all London 
wiU ring with my secret. • Oh, the pity and shame! But I wiU 
not disgrace you further. I shall not remain your guest any 
longer. To-morrow I am going away.” 

Then Colonel Lockhart speaks for the first time. 

“You must not let her go, Nella,” he says, firmly. 

“ Why?” cries out Lady Vera, startled. 

He hesitates a moment. Why should he imbue her mind with 
the doubts and fears that fill his own? And she asks again: 

“ Why should I not go away, Colonel Lockhart?” 

^“Because you will need the protection of your friends,” he 
answers, gravely. 

“ Do you think I am afraid of my enemies?” she asks, drawing 
her slight form proudly erect, and looking very brave and beauti- 
ful. “ They may hate me as they will, but I defy them to harm 
me!” 

“It is not their hatred but their love you have to fear,” he 
answers, significantly. 

“ Love,” she echoes, regarding him blankly. 


84 


COUNTESS VEBA. 


“ Leslie Noble’s love, I mean,” he answers, with an effort. 

A low and mirthless laugh ripples over her lips. 

" 1 think you have mistaken me,” she answers, bitterly. “ He 
had no love for me. Ivy Cleveland held his heart. He only 
married me for pity’s sake.” 

“ It may have been pity, then, but it is something deeper now,” 
Colonel Lockhart answers, gravely. “ That man means to claim 
you. Lady Vera. I read it in the glances he cast upon you.” 

Claim me!” she repeats, bewildered. 

“For his wife,” he answers, bitterly, out of the pain of his 
heart. 

She starts to her feet with a little frightened cry, and flies to 
I<ady Clive as if for protection. 

“ No, no, he would not dare!” she pants, wildly. “I hate and 
despise him too much to speak to him, even! I defy him to claim 
me for his wife! I would sooner die than belong to him! And 
he — oh, he would not wish it! He loved Ivy, you know.” 

“ Do not pin your faith to that fact. Lady Vera,” the baronet 
interposes gravely. “ The lady whom he claims for his wife now 
is many years older than you; she is faded, simpering, ridiculous. 
If he ever loved her, she must have made him rue that folly long 
since. Besides, she is not his real wife, and you are. Do not for- 
get your great attractions, Lady Vera. You are young, beauti- 
ful, wealthy and titled. What more natural than that Leslie 
Noble should.be dazzled by your manifold charms, and desire to 
claim you?” 

She regards him with absolute horror in her lovely, white 
face. 

“ I would die before I would suffer him to even touch me !” 
she cries, indignantly. 

“ Then you must not leave us, Lady Vera,” Sh Harry answers, 
earnestly. “With all the prestige of your rank and wealth 
you are so utterly alone in the world that my heart yearns for 
you as if you were my sister or my daughter. Stay with us 
and let us guard you from the traps your enemies may set for 
you.” 

“Stay with us,” re-echoes Lady Clive, warmly, and her broth- 
er’s speaking eyes reiterate the wish. 

But Lady Vera’s gaze turns from those eyes, too dearly loved 
for her peace of mind, and her heart sinks heavily. 

“ I should not trouble your peace. Lady Vera,” he says, hastily, 
as if divining the thought in her mind. “ I am going away.” 

“ I cannot drive you from your sister’s house,” she answers, 
sadly. 

He comes to her side and takes her hand gently in his strong, 
warm clasp. 

“ Be reasonable, Vera,” he says, like one speaking to a willful 
child. “I am a man, young and strong, and capable cf facing 
the world. You are scarcely more than a child, and you need 
protection from the ills that threaten your tender life. You will 
stay with Sir Harry and Nella while I will go away. Of course 
we understand that we cannot go on meeting each other daily as 


COUNTESS VEEA. 


we have done. It would be too hard for both. It host that 
we part. That is what you wish yourself— is it not?” 

“Yes, yes,” she murmurs, faintly. 

“ That is best,” he says, bravely. “ I shall go, then; NelJa will 
have my address, and if you ever need a friend you will send for 
me — will you not, Vera?” 

She bows silently, and with sudden, irrepressible passion, he 
presses her hand. 

“Oh, Vera, I have lost you forever, I know,” he says, broken- 
ly, “but — you will never allow Leslie Noble’s claim, will you? 
You will never belong to him, never love him?” 

“Ve^er/” she answers, with all the pride of the Campbells 
flushing her face and ringing in her voice. 

“ Thank you a thousand times,” he exclaims. “ Leslie Noble is 
not fit to claim the treasure of your love, Vera. And now, tell 
me — you will stay with Nella, will you not?” 

She glances doubtfully at Lady Chve. 

“ I could not go into society, you know,” she says. “ I could 
not face the world after — after that,” and the burning crimson 
rushes into her face. 

“It shall be just as you please about that,” her friend 
answers. “ Only say that you will remain with us, dear.” 

And Lady Vera answers: 

“Iwillsta 



And then the first beams of the early summer dawn peep into 
the room in wonder at their sad, white faces. 

It has been hours since Lady Vera began the telling of the 
sad story of her early life and her parents’ bitter wrongs, and 
now, as she bids them all a sad good-night, and goes to her room 
to rest, her heart is breaking with the bitterness of her pain. 

“ Father,” she murmurs, lifting her heavy eyes frorn her sleep- 
less pillow, “ father, I have punished them for their^ins, I have 
shamed them in the eyes of all the world, but my own heart is 
broken” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


“Vera, darling, Mr. Noble is in the library, and desires a 
private interview with you. Here is his card. Shall I say that 
you will receive him?” 

It is several days after Mrs. Vernon’s party, and Lady Clive 
comes suddenly into the pink-hung houdoir where the young 
countess is listlessly reclining on a satin sofa with her white arms 
thrown up carelessly above her head. 

She looks like some beautiful picture, though her cheek is pale, 
her lips sad, and slight, dark shadows are visible beneath her 
melancholy eyes. All her beautiful dark-golden hair is arranged 
in a rich, picturesque fashion on top of her head, and a few 
loose, curling tendrils wander lovingly over the broad, white, 
polished forehead, on which the slender, straight, black brows 
are so delicately outlined. . 

She wears an exquisite, morning-dress of white muslin, pro. 


PS COUNTESS VEEA. 

lusely trimmed v/ith rich lace, and a rose-colored ribbon binds 
li or slender waist. 

She starts up with a frightened cry at the words of Lady Clive. 

“ I will not see him! I wdll not exchange even one poor word 
with him! How dare he have the audacity to come here?” she 
pants, growing paler still with anger, and stamping her slippered 
foot on the bit of pasteboard which she has cast indignantly upon 
the floor. 

Lady Clive waits until her wrath has somewhat spent itself on 
the innocent card, then argues, gently: 

“I know it vnll be painful to you, Vera, but might it not be 
better, just once, to receive him, and find out his business? You 
will then know what course he means to adopt, and can govern 
yourself accordingly.” 

Lady Vera pauses, iiTesolute. Her bosom heaves with quick, 
indignant sighs, her dark eyes flash. 

“You advise me to receive him — this man whom I hate and 
despise. Lady Clive?” she says, wonderingly. 

“ For just once, Vera. And only now that you may learn his 
intentions and be on your guard against his machinations. After 
this time my doors shall be closed against him as against a pesti- 
lence, But you need not take my advice against your will, dear; 
use your own pleasure.” 

“ You do not know how I dread to enter his presence,” the girl 
cries, with a shudder. 

“Decline to see him, then,” Lady Clive advises. 

“ No, I will bear it this once. I vvill receive him this time, but 
after this, never!'’ Lady Vera answers, after a moment of painful 
thought. 

“You decide ^vell,” Lady Clive comments, approvingly. 

“ He is in the library, you say,” Lady Vera asks, with her 
hand upon the door. 

“Yes. Shall I accompany you, my dear, if you dread to go 
alone?” 

“I am not afraid of Leslie Noble,” the fair young countess 
answers, dauntlessly. “ I will face him alone.” 

She moves along the corridor with a free, proud stej:), glides 
down the stairs, and flings open the library door with an unfalter- 
ing hand, and her beautiful head held proudly, like a queen’s, 
with defiance in her dark and flashing eyes. 

He is waiting for her there in the soft, semi-twilight of the 
luxurious room, tall, and dark, and handsome, with eager ad- 
miration in his eyes as they fall upon the lovely, queenly girl 
crowned with the dusky gold of her luxuriant tresses. 

She comes into the room, and he bows low and courteously be- 
fore the fair girl, who, but a few nights ago claimed him as her 
husband, but she does not even bend that haughty head. 

“ Why are you here?” she asks, with scant courtesy and freez 
ing contempt. 

“ To claim my wife,” is the answer that rises impetuously to 
his hps, but he restrains liimself, feeling that so abmpt an avowal 
would be poor policy in the face of her raging scorn. 

“ Lady Fairvale, surely you expected me to call after all that 


COUNTESS VERA. 


87 


passed that night,” he answers, in a low, smooth, deprecating 
voice, fixing his soft, dark eyes pleadingly on her proud face. 

“ No, I did not expect you to call,” she flashes back scornfully. 
“ What can you possibly want of me? Did you not hear me say 
that night that I scorned and hated you ? Why, then, do you 
presume to intrude yourself upon me ?” 

“ I bring you news, my fair lady,” he answers, still calmly and 
gently, as if not resenting her scorn. “ I have cabled to Wash- 
ington, and yesterday I received a reply.” 

“A reply,” she echoes, faintly, and for a moment there is 
silence, while he regards her with eager admiration, noting every 
^aceful, womanly charm so becomingly enhanced by the beauti- 
ful, white morning-dress. After that interval he speaks. 

“ Yes, I have received my reply,” he answers; “ you were right. 
Lady Fairvale, though (^od knows what strange mystery lies 
around your supposed death and your rescue from the grave. 
But they have opened the coffin in which I swear I beheld Vera 
Campbell Noble buried, and — it is empty. I can no longer doubt 
that you are, indeed, my wife.” 

She stares at him ^^dth whitened lips, and a shudder of horror 
chills her heart. Such truth is stamped upon his face that it 
seems impossible to doubt. Yet she asks herself, with little, aw- 
Bome chills creeping over all her frame, is it possible that she, 
Vera, has actually lain in the gloom and darkness of the grave? 
Has that warm, throbbing flesh, instinct with life and vitality, 
been closed around with the blackness of the coffin ? Has the 
black earth been heaped upon her living forrh ? What fearful 
mystery is this ? 

“Tell me,” she says, almost piteously, “is it true that Vera 
Campbell died and was buried ? Will you answer it ?” 

His face expresses the most honest surprise. 

“Are you Vera Campbell, and pretend to doubt it?” he an- 
swers. “This is a mystery I cannot fathom. The girl, Vera, 
whom I made my wife by her mother’s wish, committed suicide, 
and was buried in Glenwood. This I swear by this holy book,” 
lifting a Bible lying on the table beside him, and pressing his lips 
upon it, “ If you would go to America, Lady Fairvale, you 
would see the monument I erected in Glenwood to the memory 
of my wife !” 

And again there is silence while Lady Vera, standing silently 
with little thrills of icy coldness creeping over her frame, shud- 
ders to herself. So they have buried her while she lay in that 
trance-like slumber. How had her father resurrected her, and 
why had he held it a secret ? 

Wondering at her silence, he speaks again. 

“I hs^re answered your question traly and fairly, Lady Vera. 
Let me ask you one in turn. Are you really i^orant of the 
fact that you have undoubtedly been buried alive ?” 

She shivers, palpably. All the warmth of the summer sun- 
shine cannot keep back the icy winds that seem to blow over her 
like arctic waves. 

“I never even imagined anything so horrible,” she answers. 
“ T distinctly remember my maddened attempt at suicide. There 


B8 


COUNTESS VERA. 


were two small vials in my mother’s medicine chest. One meant 
death, the other sleep. I chose the poison, as I thought; drank 
it, and lay down to die. But I had made a mistake. I fell into a 
deep, narcotic sleep. I awakened in the dawn of another day 
and found myself in a small, humble room, watched over by a 
man who declared himself to be my father. I know no more 
than this.” 

“Yet he, undoubtedly, rescued you from the grave and con- 
cealed the fact from some motive of his own,” Leslie Noble an- 
swers. “It was a mistaken kindness on his part. There are 
those who are ready to doubt your identity on the score of your 
ignorance of that strange event in your hfe. Lady Vera — some 
who would insinuate that you are an impostor and have no right 
to the title you bear. But I am not one of those carping disbe- 
lievers. I am quite convinced that you are really the Vera we 
believed to be dead so long, and I am ready to acknowledge you 
and to make reparation and atonement for the unconscious 
wrong I have done you.” 

“To make atonement — how?” Lady Vera asks him, with a 
curhng lip and scornful eye. 

Her scorn disconcerts him for a moment. His face flushes and 
his eyes fall, then he ralhes, facing her with assumed calmness 
and humility that but poorly hide the eagerness of his heart. 

“ In the only way possible, of course,” he answers. “By re- 
pudiating and putting aside the lady whom I married after your' 
supposed death, and by installing you in your rightful place. 
Will you come home to me, Vera, my beautiful wife? Darnley 
House shall open wide its door to receive you, and there is no 
more beautiful home in London. It is elegant enough for you, 
even, my haughty princess.” 

She stares at him speechless with anger and amazement. 

“Will you come to me, Vera?” he repeats, half opening his 
arms and speaking very tenderly. 

She retreats before him as he advances. Her face flames with 
anger. 

“How dare j^ou — how dare you?” she pants, brokenly. “I 
scorn you, Leslie Noble I Surely you know that. Why, you are 
less to me than the dust beneath my feet.” 

“lam your husband by your own confession,” he answers, 
sullenly, and with the fire of baffled purpose blazing in his eyes. 

“ Yes, you are my husband,” she answers, with a scorn intense 
enough to blight him where he stands. “You are my husband, 
but you have no rights over me that I shall acknowledge, be sure 
of that. You forfeited all claim on my respect in that hour when 
you stood tamely by and suffered my enemies to insult amd revile 
me, while you, my husband, uttered no word to defend me from 
their wicked abuse.” 

“I was a fool, and blind then,” he answers. “I was weakly 
dominated and ruled by a passion for Ivy Cleveland, which, God 
knows, I have rued and repented long ago. I know her now for 
what she is, a selfish, heartless woman, and her mother, a devil 
incarnate, I have told them that there is no bond between us, 


COUNTESS VERA. 


arid tliat they miist go. If you will forgive me and come home 
to me, Vera, I will devote my life to your happiness.” 

“If that is all you came for, you may go,” she answers, icily. 
“I shall never be nearer to you than I am at this moment. I 
should never have confessed my secret, I should never have 
claimed you, whom I hate and scorn, for my husband, but that 
it was the only way to keep my oath of vengeance to my dying 
father. But I have done with you now. The greatesi* kindness 
you can show me, Leslie Noble, is never to let me see your 
hated face again on earth.” 

Leslie Noble’s face grows dark with passion and shame. To be 
defied and scorned by this beautiful girl is something that would 
make most men cower and feel humiliated, and though this man 
has had the most of his finer feelings dulled and blunted by his 
life with the Clevelands, still some faint instinct of shame stirs 
in him at her words and looks. But rage overpowers it. 

“ In vour supreme scorn for me. Lady Fairvale, you seem to 
lose sight of one stubborn fact,” he answers, in low, menacing 
tones. “ I have be^n humbly pleading with you for what I may 
lawfully claim as my right.” 

“ Your right!” she echoes, retreating toward the door as if she 
could not bear another wnrd. 

“Yes, my right,” he answers, following and placing himself 
between her and the door. “ Do not go. Lady Fairvale; stay 
and hear me out. You are my wife; your place is in my home 
and by my side. What is there to hinder me from taking pos- 
session of you?” 

There is a dull menace in his look and tone, but Lady Vera’s 
high courage does not falter. 

“ Would you attempt such a thing against my will?” she in- 
quires, fixing on him the scornful gaze of her proud, dark eyes. 

“ I have fallen in love with you, Vera, I would dare much be- 
fore I would give up the hope of winning your heart in return,” 
he answers, doggedly. 

The angry color flames into her cheeks? 

“ Then you are simply mad,” she answers. “ Have I not told 
you that I hate and despise you, and that I hope never to see 
your face again after this hour? Were you the last man on earth, 
I should never give you even one kind thought.” 

“Perhaps you have given your love elsewhere,” he sneers. 
“Rumor assigns Colonel Lockhart the highest place in your 
favor.” 

“Rumor is right,” Lady Vera answers, with calm defiance. 
“I love Colonel Lockhart, and I should have been his wife had 
not you reappeared upon the scene. I believed you dead. Tell 
me who was it that died last year in your native city, having the 
same name as your own?” 

“ It was my uncle, Leslie Noble, for whom I was named,” he 
answers, sullenly, and then, quite suddenly, he falls down on his 
knees before her, and tries to take her hand, but she draws it 
haughtily away. 

“Oh, Vera,” he exclaims, in abject despair, “you drive me mad 
when you so heartlessly declare your love for another man. You 


00 


COUNTESS VERA. 


liave no right to love any other man than me; I am the lord of 
your heart and person, yet once more I plead with you, humb^, 
because I love you, come home with me, Vera, my darling. Be 
my wife in truth. Let me claim what already belongs to me in 
the eyes of the law.” 

“ Never!” she answers, decisively. “Rise, Leslie Noble, do not 
kneel to me. I will have naught to do with you now or ever. I 
would d^e before I would recognize your claim upon me. You 
have my answer now and for all time. Go, and do not trouble 
me again.” 

She moves to the door and holds it open, pointing to it with 
one white, taper finger. She looks so proud, so imperious, so 
eommanding, that against his will he is compelled to obedience. 

He moves to the door, but looks back to say with a dark, men- 
acing frown: 

“I am going, but do not please yourself with the fancy that 
you have seen the last of me. Lady Fair vale. You belong to me, 
and I swear that I will have my own.” 

With that ominous threat he goes. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Previous to Leslie Noble’s visit to Countess Vera he has been 
the hero of an excited scene at Darnley House. 

Since the night of Mrs. Vernon’s party. Ivy has been, for the 
most part of the time, raving in angry hysterics, which Mr. 
Noble makes no smallest attempt to soothe or soften. In fact, he 
spends almost all of his time away from home, and a quiet as of 
the tomb seems to have fallen over the magnificent mansion 
with its splendid furniture and large retinue of servants. No 
one calls, no further invitations pour in upon them. Society 
seems to have tacitly turned the cold shoulder to them in their 
defeat and disgrace. 

The rage, the shame, the humiliation of Mrs. Cleveland’s mind 
no tongue can tell. 

From the grave in which he lies moldering back to his kindred 
clay, her enemy has reached out an icy, skeleton hand, and 
struck the brimming cup of pride and triumph i-uthlessly from 
her lips. 

Through the agency of his child, the beautiful daughter she had 
hated so bitterly, he had avenged his terrible v rongs. There is 
murder in Marcia Cleveland’s heart as she writhes under the re- 
tributive hand of justice. Fain would she grip her strong, white 
fingers around Vera’s delicate throat, and press tlie life out, or 
plunge a dagger in her tender breast, or press a poisoned cup to 
those beautiful lips that had condemned her in such scornful 
phrases. 

On the morning of that day when Leslie Noble has his inter- 
view with Lady Vera, Mrs. Cleveland is sitting alone with Ivy in 
a small, daintily-furnished morning-room that opens from the 
library. 

They are anxiously discussing their situation and prospects, 
for it is impossible to conceal fror themselves that Mr. Noble 


COUNTESS VERA. 


01 


is dazzled by the prospect openmg before him, and that the 
severance of the tie that has bound him to the shrewish Ivy 
is more agreeable to liis mind than otheiwise, 

“Will he desert me, do you think, mamma? He used to love 
me, you remember,” exclaims the fair termagant, trying to whis- 
per comfort to her foreboding heart. 

Mrs. Cleveland laughs, a low, bitter, sarcastic laugh. 

“You do well to say onceV she answers, “ for whatever love he 
might have had for you in the past, you have killed it long 
ago by your foolish extravagance, your violent temper and self- 
will.” 

“Who incited me to it all, I wonder?” her daughter cries, 
turning her head angrily. “Who was it that told me to have 
my own way and defy him, since being my husband, he was per- 
force compelled to bear with me ? Who but you^ who now turn 
around and taunt me with the result of your teachings ?” 

“Well, well, and I was right enough,’' Mrs. Cleveland replies, 
coolly, justifying herself. “Of course I could not foresee how 
things would fall out, or I should have counselled you to keep 
your husband’s love at all events. He might then have made 
some fight against this Countess Vera’s claim. As it is ” 

She pauses with a hateful, significant “ hem.” 

“ As it is,” Ivy rei)eats after her, shortly. “Well, go on. Let 
us have the benefit of your opinion.” 

“ He wiU be glad of any excuse to shake you off,” finishes her 
mother. 

“ But he shall not do it,” Ivy cries out, furiously, and brand- 
ishing her small fist as if at some imaginary foe. “ I will stick 
to him like a burr. I am his wife. Tlie woman that claims him 
is a hateful impostor. No one will make me believe that 
Vera Campbell’s bones are not lying in the grave where we saw 
her buried three years ago.” 

“ Perhaps this will convince you,” exclaims a loud, triumph- 
ant voice, and Leslie Noble, striding suddenly into the room, 
holds an open paper before her eyes. It is the cablegram from 
Washington, telling him that the coffin beneath the marble 
monument is empt^/ — that the bride he buried three years ago 
has escaped from her darksome prison house of clay. 

“ Do you believe now?” Leslie Noble demands, with some- 
thing of insolent triumph in his voice and bearing as the two 
women crowd nearer and scan the fatal cablegram with dilated 
eyes and working faces. 

'Mrs. Cleveland answers, stormily: 

“ No, we do not believe such a trumped-up falsehood — not for 
an instant. I see how it is. You have lent yourself to a wick- 
ed plan in order to free yourself from poor innocent Ivy, whose 
greatest weakness has ever been her fondness for you, wicked 
and treacherous deceiver that you are! You strive for a high 
prize, in unlimited wealth and the greatest beauty in England. 
But you will see whether Ivy will tamely endure desertion and 
disgrace. She declares that she will not give you up, and I 
sh^ uphold her in that resolution!” 


02 


V0VNTE8S VERA. 


He stares at her a moment with an expression of fiery scorn 
and anger, then answers scathingly: 

“I am sorry to hear that Ivy is so lost to self-respect as to wish 
to still live with a man who is bound to her o^y by a tie of the 
deepest dishonor and disgrace. But her intentions or yours can 
make not the slightest difference in what I am going to do. For 
more than two years I have been the meek slave of you and of 
Ivy — driven as bond slave was never driven before the triumphal 
car of your imperious will! You have recklessly dissipated my 
fortune, defied my warnings, trampled my wishes under foot, 
shown me all too plainly for mistake that I was married for my 
money, not at all for myself. The hour of my release has come 
at last, and with unfeigned gladness I throw off the yoke that 
has long been too heavy for endurance!” 

They stare at him mutely — Mrs. Cleveland purple wdth rage. 
Ivy gasping for breath, and preparing to go off into furious 
hysterics. He takes advantage of the momentary lull in their 
wrath to proceed, determinedly: 

“You must understand by this. Ivy, that as you are no longer 
my wife, indeed, never have been, that I wiU not again recognize 
you as such, and that an immediate separation is desirable. You 
have so beggared me by your extravagance that it is impossible 
for me to follow the generous dictates of my heart which would 
prompt me to bestow a goodly sum upon you. But I shall give 
you a check for. a thousand dollars, and you may retain your 
dresses and jewels, by the sale of which you may realize a very 
neat little fortune. I have no more to say beyond expressing the 
hope that you will leave Darnley House by to-morrow and seek 
other quarters. I shall not return until you are gone.” 

While speaking he has laid with elaborate politeness a folded 
check by Ivy’s elbow, and wdth a formal bow which includes both 
ladies in its mocking complaisance, he quits the room and the 
house, to seek that interview with Lady Vera which we have re- 
corded in our last chapter. 

“Deserted! Eepudiated! Driven from home!” shrieks out Ivy, 
finding voice at last, and springing tragically to her feet. “ Mam- 
ma, what shall we do now? Where shall we go?” 

“We will go nowhere,” Mrs. Cleveland answers, determinedly. 
“ This is your home, and here we shall stay! I defy Leshe Noble 
to oust us from Darnley House. It will take something more 
than a cablegram and the oath of a countess to prove that you are 
not Leslie Noble’s wife. Why, her own denial that she was ever 
buried proves that she is not Vera Campbell. How could she be 
ignorant of such a tragic event in her own life? No, Uo, Ivy, wo 
will not quit Darnley House yet. Leslie Noble is not so easily rid 
of us as he fondly thinks. Darnley House is not ready to receive 
Countess Vera as its mistress yet. We will hold the fort.” 

Mrs. Cleveland is equal to most emergencies. 

Confident in this knowledge she settles herself to abide by her 
decision. But in this case it turns out that she has reckoned 
wdthout her host. 

A week passes. Such a week as Mrs. Cleveland and Ivy have 
seldom spent, so quiet^ so void of callers and excitement as it is. 


COUNTESS VERA. 


93 


They have commenced by taking their usual daily drive, but be- 
fore the week is out they discontinue it. Such curious, insolent 
glances follow them, such cold, averted looks meet them. 

The fickle world that smiled on them its sweetest so lately, has 
only frowns and shrugs, and whispered detractions now. 

Even Mrs. Cleveland’s iron assurance quails before the storm 
of public disapproval, and she decides to hide her diminished 
head in the luxurious shades of Darnley House. 

Of even this solace she is soon bereft. 

A freezingly-polite letter arrives from the master of the man- 
sion, desiring to know when they propose to vacate his premises. 
Mrs. Cleveland and Ivy return a prompt defiance to this inquiry, 
stating that they do not intend to leave at all. 

And now the trodden worm turns with a vengeance. 

On the following day all the servants of Darnley House leave in 
a body, after informing their mistress of their discharge by Mr. 
Noble. They decline to be re-engaged by Mrs. Noble, and Mrs. 
Cleveland hints bitterly at bribery on the part of her whilom son- 
in-law. 

On the same day arrives a concise statement from Mr. Noble to 
the effect that a public sale of the house and its effects is adver- 
tised for the third day of that week. He is outdoing even them- 
selves in cool, relentless malice. 

“ We shall have to go. We have been fairly' whipped out by 
that scheming villain,” Mrs. Cleveland groans, in indescribable 
wrath, and bitterness of spirit, and Ivy, throwing herself down 
on her satin couch, hurls bitter maledictions on Leslie Noble’s 
name, and wishes him dead a hundred times. 

But all their combined rage cannot hinder the course of events. 
So on the morning of the sale, just as a few curious strangers 
begin to evade the splendid drawing-rooms, Mrs. Cleveland and 
her daughter are quietly driven away in a closed carriage. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

“I SHALL have to leave London,” Lady Vera says, desperately, 
when rumor has wafted to her ears the stpry of Leslie Noble’s 
cavalier treatment of Mrs. Cleveland and her daughter. “I am 
afraid— horribly afraid of that man. His parting threat still 
rings in my ears.” 

“ You need not be afraid while you are with us,” Lady Clive 
exclaims, vivaciously. “Do you think we would ever Jet the 
mean wretch come near you again?” 

But Lady Vera, coloring deeply, explains: 

“ He has other methods of annoying me besides liis presence. 
Already I have received several letters from him, some of a 
wheedling, persuasive nature, others filled. with offensive threats.” 

Sir Har^ looks up from his paper. 

“Shall 1 horsewhip the scoundrel for you. Lady Vera?” he 
asks, indignantly. “ It would give me the gTeatest pleasure.” 

She shi-inks, sensitively, from this offered championship. 

“ No, no, for it would only make the affair more notorious, 


94 


COUNTESS VEBA. 


Ajid I am afraid it has been talked about already— has it not, 
Sir Harry ?” she asks, with a painful blush on her shamed face. 

“ Yes, rather,” he admits, reluctantly. 

“And I have been afraid even to look into the papers, ” she 
pursues. “I thought it might have gotten into them. Has it. 
Sir Harry ?” 

He answers “yes” again with sincere reluctance, and Lady 
Vera hides her face in her hands a moment, while crimson 
blushes of shame burn her fail’ cheeks. She thinks to herself 
that she would gladly have died rather than have encounter' 
ed all this. 

“But they do not say any harm of you, dear— you mustn’t 
think that,'' said Lady Clive, kindly. “And they all sympathize 
with you. Your friends call on you every day, only you decline 
to see them, you know. But every one is so sorry for you, and 
society has cut those people — your enemies, I mean, Vera — quite 
dead.” 

“Noble has turned them out of Darnley House, bag and bag- 
gage. Had to seU the place over their heads to oust them,^’ 
says Sir Harry. 

“Is it not strange that I should have taken such an antip- 
athy to them when I first met them abroad? Experience has 
so fully justified me that I shall plume myself hereafter on being 
a person of great discernment,” laughs Lady Clive. 

Lady Vera sighs and is silent. Her heart is very sore over the 
parting with her lover, and the notoriety that the keeping of 
her oath has brought down upon her. Fain would she bow her 
fair head in some lone, deserted spot, and die of the shame and 
misery that weighs upon her so heavily. ’ 

“After all I believe I should be safer and happier at Fairvale 
Park,” she says, after a moment. “ I have a feeling of dread up- 
on me here. I am growing nervous, perhaps, but I am actually 
afraid of Leslie Noble. I seem to be haunted by his baleful pres- 
ence. Yesterday evening when I went for a short walk, I fan- 
cied my footsteps were dogged by a man, though I could not make 
out his identity through my thick veil. But I was frightened 
homeward very fast by an apprehension that it was Mr. Noble. 
I should breathe more easily out of London. Could I persuade 
you. Lady Clive and Sir Harry, to forego the delights of the season, 
and come down to the country with me? ” 

Sir Harry gives his wife a quick telegraphic signal of aflSrma- 
tion, and she assents smilingly. 

“I am sure I shall be delighted,” she declares. “ And Sir 
Harry is usually of the same mind as I am. It must be perfectly 
lovely now down at Fairvale. And the children would be de- 
lighted, I know.” 

“ I am all the more willing to accept Lady Vera’s invitation to 
Fairvale, because I think it necessary that she should examine 
her father’s letters and papers if he has left any,” declares Sir 
Harry, diffidently. “ If he has left any confession bearing on the 
subject of her supposed death and burial, it is most important 
that she should be in possession of it.” 


C0UNTEB8 VERA. % 

**Why?” asks the young countess, looking at him with a 
slightly startled air. 

‘ ' For this reason,” he answers. “ In the face of your enemies’ 
confident assertion of Vera Noble’s death and burial, and your 
own denial of it, matters have assumed a strange aspect I Mrs. 
Cleveland and her daughter declare you to be an impostor whom 
the Earl of Fairvale has palmed off as his child. There are some 
who could very easily be brought to believe that story.” 

“Whom?” Lady Vera asks, wonderingly. 

“ The person who would be most benefited if such a charge 
could be proven true — the next heir to the title and estates of 
Fail-vale,” Sir Harry answers, gravely. 

“Oh, dear I” Cries Lady Clive, anxiously, and Vera says, with 
paling lips : 

“ You do not mean that — that — ” 

“ I ought to tell you. Lady Vera, what I have heard,” he an- 
swers, interrupting her incoherent question. “ Shall I do so ?” 

“Yes, pray do,” she answers. 

“ Briefly, then, Ealeigh Gilmore, the next heir, has come up to 
London, summoned doubtless by the vindictive Clevelands, and 
has been interviewing ‘ some eminent lawyers. Seeing that he 
has lived for ten years or more on his small estate in the country 
without ever setting foot in London, this present move on his 
part has a suspicious look. You may apprehend a suit against 
you at any time, so it behooves you to muster all the evidence you 
can on this weak point in your history.” 

Lady Vera sits silent before this new, impending calamity with 
folded hands, her color coming and going fitfully, her dark eyes 
fixed steadfastly on the floor. Perhaps she does not realize in all 
its intensity this new horror. The pain she has already endured 
has numbed her feelings, or rendered her impervious to future 
sufferings. 

“ You understand, do you not. Lady Vera,” Sir Harry pursues, 
calling her attention reluctantly, “ that your denial of ever hav- 
ing been buried makes a fearfully weak point in your case, 
should it ever be contested ? All the evidence adduced goes to 
prove that Vera Campbell Noble really died to all appearance, and 
was buried. If you are compelled by law to prove your identity 
with that Vera, you will have to admit that burial, and prove 
your resurrection. Otherwise — I am telling you this in the 
greatest kindness, remember, dear Lady Vera — you may be brand- 
ed as an adventuress and impostor, and ruthlessly bereft of the 
goodly heritage of Fairvale.” 

She lifts her heavy eyes from the blank contemplation of the 
carpet, and looks at him thoughtfully. 

“ You do not believe me an impostor, do you, Sir Harry ?” she 
asks, sadly. 

“Not for an instant,” replies the baronet, warndy. 

“Do you, Lady Clive?” 

“No, indeed, my dearest girl,” replies her friend, with an em- 
phatic caress. 

“ Did Colonel Lockhart, before he went away?” she asks, with 
Mushing hesitation. 


96 


G0UNTE88 VEEA, 


“ Kot at all,” Sir Harry answers, decidedly. , - « 

“ Then surely no one will believe it,” she says, thoughtfully. 
“You remember Vera Campbell’s grave has been foimd empty.” 

“Yes, but you remember you may be cstiled on to prove your 
identity with Vera Campbell,” he answers, gravely. 

“Leslie Noble unhesitatingly acknowledges me as his wife, 
she argues. I 

“I do not know whether that fact would weigh strongly with 
a jury,” he answers, thoughtfully. “To claim you. Lady Vera, 
so young, so lovely, above all, so wealthy, as his wife, cannot be 
without its subtle temptation to such a man as Leslie 
Noble. Rumor says that the Clevelands have almost beggared 
him by their lavish and ruinous extravagance, and that he hated 
the woman who bore his name. What more natural than that 
he should jump at the choice of exphanging his crumbling for- 
tunes and despised partner for rank and wealth, and beauty and 
youth? Though I do not doubt your identity for one moment. 
Lady Vera, I am convinced that it could scarcely be proved in a 
court of law by the oath of Leslie Noble. ” 

As he pauses, coloring, and deeply sorry that it has seemed 
necessary to speak so plainly to her whom fate has already so 
rudely buffeted, she looks up at him with forced calmness and 
self-restraint. 

“ What, then, do yourdeem it necessaiy that I should do in my 
own defense. Sir Harry?” she inquires. 

“ In times of peace prepare for war,” he quotes, sententiously. 
“Do not understand me to mean that I apprehend immediate 
trouble, Lady Vera. Perhaps in my friendliness and interest in 
you, I have magnified the danger. But I would advise that you 
be ready in case an attack is made. And the first step I would 
advise is to thoroughly examine the papers left by your father, 
the late earl. I can only think that he concealed the .truth from 
you from fear of shocking your sensitive mind too greatly. But 
I can scarcely credit that he would fail to leave on record the 
narrative of so strange and important an event in your life. I 
say, therefore, if such a document be in existence, it is judicious 
that you should put yourself in immediate possession of it.” 

Lady Vera, rising impulsively, goes over to this tnie and noble 
friend, and presses his hand warmly between both her own soft, 
wliite ones. 

“Sir Harry, I do not know how to thank you for the frieud- 
ship you are proving so nobly,” she murmurs, tearfully. “ But I 
will pray God nightly to bless you for standing by me so nobly 
in my hour of trial and sorrow.” 

“Tut— tut, I need no thanks,” the baronet answers, brushing 
a suspicious moisture away from his eyes. “How can I help 
being kind to Nella’s best loved friend, and her brother’s sweet- 
heart? You need not blush, my dear, for I hope Providence may 
soon translate Leslie Noble to some higher sphere, and give you 
and Phfi. leave to be happy. And untu then I will do the best I 
can for your comfort. In furtherance of that end I propose that 
Nella and the children shall b« in readiness to accompany you to 
Fairvale to-morrow,” 


COUNTESS VERA. 97 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Sadly and wearily enough Lady Vera goes to her room and 
her couch that night. Having disrobed and retired, she dismiss- 
es her maid to ^he dressing-room to complete the packing for 
to-morrow’s flitting. Then, closing her heavy eyelids, she en- 
deavors to woo sleep to her weary pillow. 

Strange, shuddering sighs heave the fair breast as she lies there 
in the dim, half-light of the lowered lamp, with her fair arms 
tossed above her golden head, and the dark lashes drooping against 
the pale and loydy cheeks. 

Sir Harry Clive’s conversation has revived in her sensitive, im- 
aginative mmd all her horror of that strange, living entombment 
through which she has passed years ago, all unknown to herself 
by reason of her father’s tender, shielding love. 

“ I have lain in the bosom of the dark earth, the coffin-lid has 
been fastened down upon my living breast, the cold, black clods 
have been heaped upon me; I have been buried alive. Oh, horri- 
ble I” she murmurs, aloud, and to her excited fancy it seems as if 
the echo of a low, diabolical laugh floats tlirough the room. 

She starts up on her elbow with a low and frightened cry. 

“ Elsie, did you speak? did you laugh?” she calls out to her 
maid in the dressing-room; but Elsie, absorbed in the prosaic 
business of packing, does not hear her voice, and in a moment 
the countess falls back upon her pillow, chiding herself for ner- 
vousness. 

“ It was a foolish fancy, merely,” she tells herself. “I must 
not let my nervous thoughts run on like this through my terror 
of that mysterious burial. I will compose myself to sleep. The 
hour is getting late. Perhaps Elsie has finished her work and 
gone.” 

Once more she vainly tries to lose herself in sleep, but her 
heart beats in her ears, her temples throb, some - strange, alien, 
agitating influence controls her mind, banishing rest and repose. 

She puts her hands over her ears, in mortal dread of hearing 
that low, eerie, unearthly cackle of malicious mirth again, and 
shuts her eyes as if in dread of seeing some strange, unwelcome 
vision start out from the shadowy hangings of the darkened 
room. 

“ Surely I am going mad under the weight of my troubles,” 
she says to herself, half -fearfully. “ This sleeplessness, these 
weird, unearthly fancies must be the premonitions of reason 
tottering on its throne.” 

The minutes pass. Gradually Lady Vera becomes conscious of 
a delicate, subtle odor floating lightly through the room. She 
does not recognize it as a perfume. It is simply an odor, faintly 
sickening, yet strangely soothing to her excited senses. Her eye- 
lids fall more heavily. She seems to sleep. 

Sleeping, a hideous vision comes to Lady Vera. A dark-robed, 
creeping figure seems to start from the black shadows at the 
furthest corner of the room and float across the floor to her bed- 
side. 

It is the form of a taU woman, with a hooded head and masked 


COUNTESS VERA, 


face, but through the small holes of the mask two murderous 
black eyes glare hatred upon her, the malevolent eyes of Marcia 
Cleveland. 

Vera tries to start, to cry out, but she is motionless, dumb, 
bound hand and foot by the spell of that subtle, sickening drug 
diffused through the room, and which grows stronger as Marcia 
Cleveland’s snowy handkerchief flutters lightly in her hand. 

All this Lady Vera notes in her strange dream, with feelings 
of unutterable horror and despair. She tries to awake, to open 
her dazed eyes fully, to utter some sound from her poor, parched 
lips, but they refuse to obey her will. 

And still those murderous black eyes glare with devilish 
hatred upon her through the narrow slits in the mask. 

Surely that evil glare is balfeful enough to kill her of itself, Vera 
thinks despairingly, but even at that instant the woman's hand 
is drawn backward and upward, and in her murderous grasp 
glitters the flashing blade of a dagger poised above the bare, un- 
covered breast of the helpless victim, and this time with a last, 
vain, frenzied effort to call on God for protection, Vera loses 
sight and consciousness, and lies helpless at the mercy of her 
deadly foe. 

The flashing steel glitters sharply in the air, nearer and nearer 
it descends over the victim, in another moment it will be sheath- 
ed in her heart, when a sudden cry rings through the room, swift 
footsteps cross the floor, strong arms seize the body of the mur- 
deress from behind and wrench her away from her helpless 
pr 



clanking to the floor. A man’s 


voice, passionate, vibrant, intense, cleaves the shuddering air of 
the night. 

“Devil! murderess! If you had slain my darling, that blade 
should have been sheathed in your own heart a moment later!” 

It is the voice of Colonel Lockhart. Elsie, the maid, comes 
close behind him, and together they bind the would-be murderess 
with strong cords that prevent her attempted escape. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


When Lady Vera comes to herself at last with many sighs, 
and painful moans, she finds Lady Clive and the maid Elsie hov- 
ering around her like ministering angels, the latter, indeed, sob- 
bing piteously in the belief that her young mistress is dead. But 
when the faint breath flutters over the parted lips, and the dark 
eyes unclose and stare around her with a blank, terrified look, 
Elsie sobs for joy, and even Lady Clive’s bright blue eyes fill with 
glad tears. 

“She is alive, my lady,” the maid exclaims, joyfully. “That 
dreadful woman has not killed her with her vile chloroform.” 

Lady Vera shivers and puts her hand to her breast, withdraw- 
ing it, and gazing at it as though she expected to find it stained 
with blood. 

“ I thought she had killed me with that terrible dagger. I saw 
it gleam in the air above me. And, oh, those terrible eyes I They 


COUNTESS VERA. 99 

seemed to burn through me with their intense hate. Did you 
save me, Lady Clive?” she moaned, feebly. 

No, dear, you owe your life to this brave Elsie,” Lady Clive 
replies, turning an appreciative glance on the neat and pretty 
girl who was still busy over her mistress. 

“ Tell me how it was, Elsie,” commands Lady Vera. 

“You see, my lady,” Elsie begins, “ I had just finished pack- 
ing your trunks, and thought I would go and see if you were 
asleep, or if you needed me before I went to bed. I had been 
packing very softly so as not to disturb you, and I crept softly in 
my stocking feet to the archway, and just parted the hangings 
to peep in at you. Then I saw you lying white as death, and a 
strange, sickening smell was in the room. I gazed around, and 
saw a head peeping around a curtain in the corner. The face 
was masked, and two blazing eyes shone through the eye-holes.” 

“You may well say blazing eyes,” Lady Vera groans. “ They 
seemed to burn through nie when they looked down at me. And 
then, Elsie?” 

“ Oh, my lady, I was almost frightened to death! I knew that 
I was too light and small to cope with the robber, as I then 
thought him, but I had just enough sense Jleft not to cry out, or 
make a noise. I ran swiftly and silently away out into the cor- 
ridor where I met a gentleman going up into his room. I begged 
him to follow me at once, and he did so without a word. And, 
oh, my lady, we were not an instant too soon!” Elsie covers her 
face with her hands and shivers at the thought. 

“ She was about to murder me. I saw and knew all, though I 
could not move nor speak,” exclaimed Countess Vera. 

“ She was, indeed, about to murder you,” returns the maid. 
“ She had crept from her corner and was standing over your bed 
with a shining dagger raised over you. Your night-dress had 
become unfastened at the throat, and your breast was bare. She 
was about to strike when your rescuer ran swiftly in and wliirled 
her away from the bed, and the dagger fell on the fioor. Oh, my 
dear lady, it is horrible how near you came to being killed,” 
cries the faithful maid, bursting into fioods of tears at the dread- 
ful thought. 

“ But for you, my faithful girl, I should now be dead,” the 
countess answers, deeply moved. “You’ shall be generously re- 
warded. But now tell me who was the gentleman that so oppor- 
tunely came to your asistance?” 

Elsie looks embarrassed, but Lady Clive comes to the res- 
cue. 

“ We did not mean that you should know, dear,” she says, “ but 
I might have guessed that you would never rest until you knew. 
So I will tell you. It was Philip.” 

Lady Vera turns from deatlily white to rosy red at that magic 
name. 

“But he went away,” she says, wonderingly. 

“ I know— -he was down in the country visiting a friend. Last 
night he came in after you had retired, and he expected to go in 
the morning before you came down.” 

“ Next to Elsie, I owe him my life,” Lady Vera says, softly, as 


100 COUNTESS VERA, 

if there were a subtle pleasure in the thouglit, “ and that dread- 
ful woman — is she gone?” 

Marcia Cleveland? No, indeed. She is in the dressing-room, 
securely bound, and guarded by Philip and Sir Harry.” 

“ I should like to see her,” Lady Vera observes, after a mo- 
ment’s thought. “But first, Elsie, I should like my dressing- 
gown and slippers.” 

j And wrapped in the soft, blue robe, with her splendid, golden 
hair floating loosely over her shoulders, like a shining veil. Lady 
Vera enters the presence of her enemy, closely followed by Lady 
Chve and Elsie, who guard her with nervous care on either side. 

Marcia Cleveland, crouching like a bafiied tigress, in the bonds 
they have cast around her, lifts her eyes and glowers with deadly 
rage and hate at the beautiful young girl. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

For a moment there is complete silence, while the wicked and 
vindictive woman glares with all the bitterness of baffled hate 
and vengeance upon her beautiful foe who had so nearly been her 
victim. 

The Lady Vera speaks in a tone of cold and withering con- 
tempt: 

“ Could you not have been satisfied with the wrongs you have 
inflicted on me and mine, Marcia Cleveland, without attempting 
my life?” 

“ You should have known better than to think I could remain 
quiescent under your malicious vengeance! Did you think I 
could stand idly by and see you ruin my daughter’s whole life 
without striking back at you?” the woman answers, sullenly. 

“ No, for I knew that there was too much of the venomous ser- 
pent in your nature,” Lady Vera answers, with stinging scorn. 
“But I believe that even malevolence like yours would have 
shrunk abashed before such a terrible crime as this which you 
have attempted. Do you not tremble at the consequences of what 
3 ^ou have done?” 

“ I have done nothing. I have only failed in what would have 
been a source of pride and joy to me if I had succeeded,” Mrs. 
Cleveland answers, with sullen bravado. 

“Infamous wretch!” Sir Harry Clive mutters audibly, while 
Colonel Lockhart, with a deathly-pale face and blazing eyes, ap- 
pears to restrain himself with diflaculty from springing upon her 
and tossing her out of the window. 

“ Should you indeed have been so glad to see me dead?” Lady 
Vera inquires, with a slight tone of mournfulness. 

It seems incredible to her pure mind that this woman, in whose 
veins runs some slight strains of her own blood, being her moth- 
er’s half-sister, could so coldly and heartlessly wish her dead — 
could even attempt to kill her. 

“Yes, I should be glad to see you dead,” Mrs. Cleveland an- 
swers, viciously. “ I have hated Vera Campbell and wished her 
dead ever since she was born. I hated her mother before her. 
She robbed me of the only man I ever loved, and earned my 


COUNTESS VERA. 


101 


eternal hate! And if you are really Edith Campbell’s child, as 
you assert, be assured that I hate /ou, too, and wish you dead 
with all my heart!” 

“Lady Vera, do not bandy words with the heartless creature! 
She can only wound you more and more,” exclaims the baronet, 
indignantly. “ Let us take her away. She contaminates the air 
we breathe.” 

For the first time a look of fear whitens the woman’s reckless, 
daring face. 

“ Take me away — where?” she mutters, under her breath. 

“To prison,” Sir Harry answers, sternly, “to answer for your 
crime.” 

“ Crime? I have committed no crime. I have not harmed a 
single hair of my lady’s head,” the woman answers, with sarcas- 
tic insolence. 

“That is not your fault, 'woman,” he answers, coldly and re- 
bukingly. “ You failed in the endeavor, but you shall pay dear- 
ly for the attempt. Have you done with her, Lady Vera? We 
are waiting on your pleasure.” 

Lady Vera stands silent a moment, regarding the -wretched 
creature groveling on the fioor in the cords with which they have 
securely bound her. In spite of her air of reckless bravado, Vera 
sees that her face is ghastly pale, and the dew of fear beads her 
brow. The angry eyes fall for the first time before the young 
girl’s gaze of steady contempt. For a moment the silence con- 
tinues, then Vera asks, clearly and calmly: 

“ Can I do anything for you, Mrs. Cleveland?” 

“ No,” she answers, in an enraged snarl, like an angry Ocinine. 

Lady Vera continues, calmly: 

“ Pray understand me. I have no wish to wage further war- 
fare upon you. With the fulfillment of my oath of vengeance 
my feud against you ended. I despise your hatred and your 
attempt to injure me, and I have no desire to punish you more 
than I have already done in obedience to my oath of vengeance. 
If there is anything I can do for you, speak.” 

Mrs. Cleveland looks wonderingly at the beautiful, calm, white 
face of the girl as she stands waiting for her answer. 

“ Do you mean that you will not prosecute me for this attempt 
on your life? That you will suffer me to go free?” she inquires in 
a doubtful tone, in which hope faintly struggles. 

“ Yes, I mean that, if you wish it — do you?” Vera asks, still 
quietly. 

“ Yes, but I hate to take a favor from you,” the woman an- 
swers, sullenly. 

“ Do not take it as a favor. Consider that I am heaping coals of 
fire upon your head,” Lady Vera answers, with a slight, cold 
laugh. “ I choose to take my revenge that way. Sir Harry ^ will 
you please loose her bonds?” 

The baronet looks his disapproval. 

“Lady Vera, pray do not give way to such a Quixotic im- 
pulse,” he urges. “ If you do, this woman will live to make you 
regret it. You ov/e her no forbearance. I say let her suffer the 
penalty of the law for her attempted crime,” 


102 COUNTESS VERA. 

Lady Clive and Elsie cclio his words, but the countess shakes 
her golden head. 

“ It is my wish that she shall go free,” she answers, with reso- 
lution, “ Colonel Lockhart, will you not loose her bonds?” 

It is the first time she has seemed to be conscious of his pres- 
ence. The deep color mantles her cheek as she speaks his name, 
and lifts a timid, appealing glance to him that makes his heart 
beat fast in his breast. 

“Since you^iAi it. Lady Vera, yes,” he answers, with a low 
bow, and hastens to execute her will, while the baronet, a little 
chagrined at her willfulness, looks silently on. 

A moment and the strong cords that bind her enemy fall to the 
floor. Mrs. Cleveland rises erect and tall, and faces Vera. 

“ Do not expect me. to thank you for this release,” she says, 
bitterly. “Although I am glad to go free, I hate you if possible 
even more that you have had it in your power to do me a kind- 
ness.” 

“I expect no thanks,” the countess answers icily. “I only 
desire to be rid of your presence.” She lifts her white hand, and 
points commandingly at the door. 

“Now go.” 

“One moment,” exclaims the baronet. “How did you gain 
admittance to Lady Vera’s bedchamber, and conceal yourself 
there ?” 

“By my womam’s wit,” she answers, curtly and decisively. 

“ Then, perhaps, you can find your way out in the same man- 
ner,” the baronet rejoins, sarcastically. 

“Perhaps so, but I think, on the whole, I should prefer a 
guide,” she answers, with cool insolence. 

“I am at your service, madam,” Colonel Lockhart says, obey- 
ing a pleading look from Lady Vera, and preceding her to the 
door, followed by Sir Harry. 

In a moment more, without word or backward glance, the 
wicked woman sweeps from the room. 

Then Vera, broken dowm by the fierce strain upon her feelings, 
breaks down utterly, and weeps on Lady Clive’s breast until she 
is thoroughly exhausted. 

“ You see it is all for the best to go away to-morrow,” she has 
said to her friend. “ Even my life is not safe here against the 
machinations of my relentless enemies.” 


CHAPTER XXXHI. 

It ifl very lovely down in the country at Fairvale Park in the 
golden summer weather. A pang goes through Lady Vera’s 
heart as she recalls Sir Harry Clive’s warning, and thinks of los- 
ing this grand, picturesque place, the only true home she has 
ever known. Her sweetest, tenderest memories of her father 
are twined around the spot. 

Bereft of this, she must indeed be desolate. Not even one spot 
of brightness will remain in the cold and cruel darkness that has 
settled over her life. 

Perhaps it is this tliought that drives her, as soon as she is at 


COUNTESS VERA. 


108 


home again, to seek diligently through her father’s papers for 
some writing bearing on the subject of her supposed death and 
burial. 

Sir Harry Clive has so confidently believed in the existence 
of some such document, that it is with a pang of the bitterest 
disappointment she sees the first day pass with no tangible suc- 
cess, though her brain is tired, and her eyes weary with poring 
over the contents of his desk. 

“I have found nothing, although I have closely scrutinized 
every little bit of paper,” she tells Sir Harry, when they meet at 
dinner, in a tone of sad disappointment. 

“You have examined all the papers?” he asks, with disap- 
pointment equal to her own. 

“ All, except an old memorandum-book, which I intend to look 
over to-morrow,” she answers, “though I scarcely think it will 
result in anything. Do you think it worth my while to examine 
it ?” 

“Yes. It is a forlorn hope, at least, and we must try every- 
thing. Strange that your father should have neglected so im- 
portant a duty,” the baronet continues, musingly. 

“Poor papa! You must remember, his mind was all dis- 
traught by grief,” Lady Vera answers, with rising tears. “ He 
thought only of his sorrows and his longed-for vengeance on the 
destroyer of his wedded happiness. We must forgive him for 
his want of thought.” ^ 

“ You must not think that I am blaming him, dear Lady Vera. 
Nothing is further from my thoughts,” Sir Harry answers, 
gently, but there is a shade of anxiety on his brow that does not 
clear away during the evening. 

He is full of sorrow for the fair young countess, full of fears 
that h§ will not speak aloud, for he has heard far more of Raleigh 
Gilmore’s intentions than he would even hint to Vera or to Lady 
Clive. He knows that she will have to make a fight for title, 
name and fortune, and that her case before the law is so terribly 
weak that there is large danger of her being cast out from her 
inheritance, and branded as adventuress and impostor. 

But of all that is in his mind Sir Harry says notliing. Why 
should he grieve her more, he thinks, looking at the pale, suffer, 
ing young race, on whose white and wasted lineaments the traces 
of sorrow were so plainly and sadly outlined. 

“ Upon her face there was the tint of grace, 

The settled shadow of an inward strife, 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye 

As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.” - 

The next day, taking the old memorandum-book, she goes for 
a solitary ramble. Lady Clive is going for a drive with her chil- 
dren, so she will not be missed. 

A favorite resort of Lady Vera’s is a silvery httle lake on the 
green border of the wide, level park. Water-lilies with their 
wide green leaves and waxen- white petals rock softly on the 
bosom of the lake, and feathery-green willows fringe it softly 
round. Lady Vera finds a quiet, sequestered seat with her back 


104 


COUNTESS VEBA, 


against a willow tree, and applies herself to her task, turning 
page after page softly and unweariedly in the pursuit of her oh-* 
ject. 

A weary quest. The simple, leather-bound memorandum vol- 
ume, with plain gold clasps, had been Earl Fair vale’s bosom 
companion in the days when he was simple Lawrence Campbell. 
Patiently Vera reads on and on, and the morning sun mounts 
higher in the heavens, the water ripples softly at her feet, the 
wind sighs in the grass and the willows. 

But it is not the most delightful reading in the world, studying 
the dull entries of an old memorandum-book. Lady Vera’s 
sweet patience begins to flag at last. Her red lips quiver with 
disappointment and suspense. She shuts the book with one 
taper finger between the pages and leans her golden head back 
against the tree, wearily. 

“ There is nothing here — absolutely nothing,” she tells herself, 
sadly, all unconscious that but one thin leaf intervenes between 
her and success. “I shall lose all,” she continues, with a chok- 
ing sob; “I have lost my lover and all my happiness. Now I 
shall have to lose my name, my title, my home, all the lavish 
wealth to which I have become so accustomed that I shall not 
know how to do without it. All my life I have seemed to be the 
foot-baU of fate. Sorrow is ever near me. It is like Philip’s song. 
Oh, how often I recall it: 

‘ As the blade wears the scabbard, 

The billow the shore, 

So sorrow doth fret me 
Forevermore!’ ” 

She rests a little, letting the tears steal unchecked down her 
pale cheeks, while her bosom heaves with emotion — a little while, 
and then she dashes the blinding drops away, chiding herself for 
her weakness. 

“I am childish and silly; I must remember I have not got to 
the end of the book yet. Time enough to despond then,” she 
says, bending to her task with renewed ardor and energy. 

The dark eyes under the shady fringe of the lashes rove 
patiently down the page— they finish it, and find nothing— the 
white, taper finger turns another leaf, and lo! there at the top of 
the page, tliis mysterious entry: 

“Oct. 30th, 188 — , Mem. To-day presented Joel llilcPherson, 
sexton at Glenwood Cemetery, Washington, D. C., with a check 
for a thousand dollars, as a slight testimonial of my undying 
gratitude for his skill and co-operation with me in the act by 
which my darling daughter, Vera, was restored to me from the 
grave itself, in vmich she had been immured alive.” 

A cry breaks from the lips of the overjoyed girl — ^the tears 
start afresh — this time the shining drops of gladness. 

“ Eureka! I have found it!” she quotes, with a low and happy 
laugh, and bending her graceful head, she kissses the precious 
record made by that beloved hand now mouldering into dust. 

It is some little time before she grows quite calm. The happy 
excitement of joy has made her pulse beat and her heart burn. 
At last, with the book still lying open on her lap, and her head 


COUNTESS VERA. 


105 


leaned back against the tree, the tired lids fall over the dark eyes, 
she relapses ^to pleasant musings over this happy qhance, and 
so — drops asleep, little dreaming of the baleful presence hovering 
so near ner. 

The winds sigh past her cheek, fanning it softly with a touch 
as soft as a kiss; the silver waters murmur at her feet, lulling 
her into sweeter, softer slumber. And no instinct warns her of 
the baleful gaze that watches her through the screen of the bend- 
ing willows, nor of the stealthy footsteps creeping, sei-pent-like, 
nearer and nearer, until the eager gaze peers over her shoulder at 
the precious page spread open on her knee. 

* ****** * 

The sun climbs liigher, broad noonday throws a lance of golden 
light into Vera’s shady retreat and shines into her face. She 
wakes with a start, and springs to her feet. 

“I have been asleep! How camel here?” she cries; then sud- 
denly she remembers. I was looking over papa’s book, and I 
found the record of my burial and ^my rescue from the grave. 
Where is it, now? It lay open on my lap when I fell asleep. I 
hope it has not fallen into the lake.” 

A hurried survev of the green, mossy bank convinces her 
that such must be tne case. The memorandum-book is nowhere 
to be seen. Most probably it has been precipitated into the 
water by her startled spring to her feet on awaking. 

“How could I have been so careless?” she cries, in poignant 
grief and dismay. ‘ ‘ I should have gone straight to the house and 
shown Sir Harry my important discovery. But I remember 
every word of it just as it was written. Perhaps that will do as 
well. I will go and seek Sir Harry at once and tell him all.” 

Carelessly donning her wide-brimmed sun-hat she leaves the 
spot, little dreaming that she has been ruthlessly robbed of her 

“ Are you sure— quite sure that you have not dreamed the 
whole thing. Lady Vera?” Sir Harry Clive asks her, incredulous- 
ly, when she told him her story. 

The sensitive color mantles her delicate cheek. 

“I am perfectly certain of what I have stated,” she answers. 
“ It was only after I had found the entry that I fell asleep a few 
delicious moments. It must have been the greatness of the re- 
action from suspense and grief to success and joy that caused 
my sudden, overwhelming drowsiness. I remember that I kissed 
the precious words a few minutes before I fell asleep. I read 
them over and over. Listen, Sir Hariy, I am quite sure I can 
repeat every word with perfect accuracy now. 

Slowly she repeats: 

“Oct. 30th, 188— . Mem. To-day presented Joel McPherson, 
sexton at Glen wood Cemetery, Washington, D. C., with a check 
for a thousand dollars, as a slight testimonial of my undying 
gratitude for bis skill and co-operation with me in the act by 
which my darling daughter, Vera, was restored to me from the 
grave itself, in which she had been immured alive.” 

As she slowly utters the words, Sh Harry jots them down m 


106 COUNTESS TER A. 

his own Tnemorandum-hoo'k:. There is a puzzled look on his broad, 
fair, intelligent brow. 

‘‘If only you had not fallen asleep,” he says, regretfully. But, 
dear Lady Vera, tliis sounds so much like the vagaries of sleep. 
It seems real to you, I know, but I am almost afraid to pin my 
faith on it.” 

“ The lake is not deep; I will send one of the servants to dive 
for the book. I am sure he wiU find it. Then I shall convince 
you of my credibility,” she answers, quietly, as she leaves the 
room. 

As she has said, the lake is not deep, and several of the men- 
servants at Fairvale Park are skillful swimmers, but for all that 
they cannot find the eqrl's memorandum-book beneath the shal- 
low waves. All trace of it is gone. 

“ Are you quite sure you carried it down to the lake with you?” 
the baronet asks, unfeigncdly perplexed. 

“I am quite sure,” she replies, with decision. “ It lay open on 
my lap when I fell asleep.” 

“Can any one have stolen it?” he asks, unconsciously hitting 
the truth. 

“Impossible,” she answers. “ I am sure if any one had come 
near me, I should have awakened. I am a very light sleeper.” 

“There is something very mysterious about its loss. I am 
quite confident it did not fall into the lake,” muses Sir Harry 
Chve. 

Lady Vera, on the contrary, is quite sure that it did, but she 
does not urge her belief, feeling a little wounded by his incredu- 
lous air, but after a little, she says, thoughtfully: 

“ I am so sure that what I have told you is the truth and no 
dream. Sir Harry, that I shall write to this Joel McPherson in 
America, and offer him a large reward to come to England and 
explain that strange entry in the lost memorandum-book. What 
do you think of my plan ?” 

“It can do no harm,” he answers, after a moment’s thought, 
“ and it might be a good plan.” 

“ Then I shall lose no time in excuting it,” she answers, decis' 
ively. 

The baronet detains her to say, hesitatingly: 

“ Do not think me officious, Lady Vera, if I suggest that you 
advertise the loss of the earl’s memorandum-book, and offer a 
suitable reward for its recovery. It is just possible that some 
strolling tramp has quietly pilfered it while you lay sleeping, at- 
tracted by the golden clasps.” 

“It may be,” Lady Vera answers, incredulously, but she duly 
writes out the advertisement, and it is forwarded without delay 
to the county papers. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Two days later. Lady Vera, amusing herself under the broad 
oaks of the park with Lady Clive’s children, is secretly drawn 
aside by Hal, the eldest, with a look of importance on his hand- 
some face. 


COUNTESS VERA. 107 

*‘Come with me, Vera, away from the nurse and children,'’ he 
Bays, with a confidential air. “ I have something for you.” 

Always indulgent to children. Lady Vera follows the clasp of 
the small hand, and is led away to a small summer-house out of 
range of the keen eyes of Mark and Dot. 

“Now you may sit down, Vera,” announces eight-year-old 
Hal, with owlish gravity. “ I have something to tell you before 
I give you what I said I had for you.” 

Countess Vera sits down obediently. It is a bird’s nest, or a 
blue-bird’s egg, or some such treasure of the summer wood, she 
thinks to herself, with a smile, as the httle brown hand goes into 
his jacket pocket. 

“ This morning, Vera, I went for a walk with Mark and Dot, 
and the nurse,” he begins. “We went down into the wood 
a httle way, it was so cool and green, and the birds sang so 
sweetly.” 

“ It is surely a bird’s egg,” Vera says to herself now, keenly 
approving her own penetration. 

But between the boyish fingers now appears the small corner 
of a yeUow envelope, which somewhat quickens her curiosity. 

“ I went off to some distance by myself, and climbed a tree to 
look into a bird’s nest. Bessie scolded, but I am too old to be 
bossed by a nurse, papa says, and so I gave her to understand. 
Don’t you think I am getting too tall to mind what Bessie says. 
Lady Vera?” throwing back his curly head with dignity. 

“ Much too tall,” Lady Vera admits with demure earnestness. 
“ I should say that you would reach quite to her shoulder.” 

“Oh, quite,” says Hal, in an ag^ieved tone. “So, as I was 
teUing you, Vera, I told Bess to mind her own business. Then 
I climbed into a great tree to look into a bird’s nest.” 

“ I hope you did not rob the nest and bring me the spoils, Hal,” 
she begins, reproachfully. 

“ No, indeed,” laughed the lad. “You would not have ad- 
mired them very much if I had. The nest was pretty, but the 
five little naked birds in it were quite disgusting, I can tell you. 
Not a feather had grown on them yet, and their gaping mouths 
seemed as if they would swallow one. I came down pretty quick, 
and almost landed on the head of an old woman.” 

“ An old woman,” Vera repeats, in surprise. 

“Yes, a wrinkled, stooping old hag, gathering sticks in the 
wood. I gave her a pretty start, I can tdl you,” cries the boy, 
laughing at the remembrance. 

“Ah, then, it is a souvenir of the old witch you have brought 
me,” says the countess, smiling. ^ 

“ You have guessed it, Vera. You must be a witch yourself,” 
cries Hal, in high glee with himself and her. “ Here it is, a let- 
ter with an elegant yellow cover — a begging letter, of course,” 
he adds, with a ludicrous assumption of wisdom. 

A start of repulsion goes over Vera as she takes the coarse en- 
velope in her hand. 

She holds it unopened in her hand a moment, wondering at her 
own nervousness. 


108 


COUNTESS VERA, 


Are you afraid to open it, Vera?” laughs the boy. “Let me 
do it for you, then. The old hag was veiy mysterious over it, I 
can tell you. She bade me tell no one of the letter, not even 
papa and mamma. You see how clever I was, getting you away 
from Bessie and the children.” 

Lady Vera has torn the coarse envelope open by this time, A 
half sheet of paper falls out into her hand. On it is clearly and 
plainly written these lines: 

“If Lady Fairvale would gain possession of the lost memoran- 
dum-book, let her come down oeyond the lodge-gates, half a 
mile along the road at dusk this evening. Let her come alone 
and unwatched, or she will accomplish nothing. One will be in 
waiting who will restore the memorandum-book, and claim the 
reward.” 

Thus it ends. Hal looks curiously at her pale, grave face. 

“ It was a begging letter, wasn’t it?” he inquires. 

“ She certainly wants something of me. I am not sure if she 
will get it or not. Hal, promise me not to speak of this to-day 
to anyone — will you, dear?” 

“ Mum’s the word. I can keep a secret, you bet,” answers the 
eldest-born of the Clives, with dreadful slang, acquired, no 
doubt, in the stables which he visits daily with Ins father. 

“ Thank you, dear, that’s a good boy. Now let us go back to 
Mark and Dot,” says Lady Vera, putting her yellow-covered let- 
ter in her pocket. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

“Shall I keep the apjKjmtment?” Lady Vera asks herself many 
times that day. 

A certain doubt and dread hovers intangibly in her mind. 
Will she really obtain the lost memorandum-book, or is it only 
some trap her enemies have set for her? 

She longs to consult Sir Harry and Lady Clive, but the warn- 
ing of the writer deters her. 

“ She must come alone and un watched, or she will accomplish 
nothing.” 

Lady Vera has a premonition that her friends would by no 
ineans permit her to accede to the writer’s demands, yet she de- 
cides within herself that there is reaUy no danger in doing so. 

Sir Harry Clive’s theory of the loss of her book is no doubt cor- 
rect. Some strolling thief, probably the old hag of Hal’s story, 
has pilfered it for the sake of the golden clasps, and now, attract- 
ed by the offered reward, is eager to restore it. 

After weighing the matter in lier mind all day, she decides to 
keep the appointment. She is most anxious to recover the lost 
book again, spurred onward to even more eagerness by her desire 
to prove to the baronet that her strange story is no dream, as he 
too evidently persists in believing. 

Yet, obeying the “ still, small voice,” that whispers to the heart 
of danger. Lady Vera decides to take some few precautions for 
her safety in case that treachery should assail her. 

As evening approaches she incloses the letter of her mysterious 


COUNTESS VEEA. 


100 


correspondent in an envelope, together with a small note, saying 
that she had gone to meet tlie writer. She seals it and addresses 
it to Sir Harry Clive. 

A great restlessness comes over Lady Vera as the hour 
approaches in which she is to meet the unknown possessor of the 
lost book*. 

With some trivial excuse to her friends for deserting their com- 
pany, she retires to her room and summons her faithful Elsie. 

Elsie, by the way, has been made happy for life by the settle- 
ment upon her by her mistress of a generous marriage portion. 

She is engaged to Robert Hill, the gardener, and Lady Vera has 
taken this method of testifying her gratitude to Elsie by smooth- 
ing their path to a speedy marriage. 

Now with some little nervousness Lady Vera puts into Elsie's 
hands the letter addressed to Sir Harry Clive. 

“ Elsie, I am going out for a little while,” die says, with as 
much calmness and indifference as she can command. “I leave 
this letter in your keeping. Keep it faithful for one hour. If I 
return in one hour you may give it back into my hands. If, on 
the contrary, I fail to be here by that time, you must give it im- 
mediately to Sir Harry Clive.” 

The maid looked at her, a little frightened by the gi*avity of 
the charge and by Lady Vera’s pale, strange face. 

“ It will soon be dusk, my lady. It is too late for you to be out 
alone. If you must go out, take someone with you,” urges El- 
sie. 

“Nonsense!” her mistress laughs, reassuringly. “I am not 
afraid to walk in my own grounds at this hour of the evening; I 
have done so often before. Do not tell anyone I am out ualess 
the hour elapses before I return. Then you may raise the 
alarm.” 

“ My lady, I am afraid to let you go like this,” objects the maid. 
“ It seems as if you anticipate danger yourself; I am sure it is 
wrong for you to go.” 

But Lady Vera at this shows the sterner side of her character, 
which is seldom turned to her adoring dependants. 

“You will obey my orders, Elsie,” she answers, haughtily. 

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” falters Elsie, bursting into 
tears. 

“There, there, Elsie, I did not mean to hurt you,” Lady Vera 
says, melted at once. “ But you must not try to hinder me. 
Give me some light wrapper now to keep the dew off my dress.” 

Elsie brings a long, dark circular of thin cloth and delivers it 
to her mistress with many silent forebodings — forebodings 
destined to be only too sadly realized. 

For who can tell how long it will be before the light footsteps 
of Countess Vera shall echo on the threshold of the palatial home 
she is leaving so eagerly and secretly, now, to keep her tryst with 
her mysterious correspondent. 

Not Elsie, who weeps so silently, filled with strange, prescient 


fears. 

It is growing 


dusk indeed as Lady Vera, wrapped in the dark 


110 


C0VNTE8S VERA. 


circular, with the hood drawn over her head, flits rapidly along 
theq^uiet road. 

When at last in the distance she descries the bent and drooping 
figure of an old woman, she laughs to herself at the vague fears 
that have troubled her. 

“ Poor, harmless old rogue,” she says to herself, half pityingly. 
“ One need apprehend no danger from her. A few shillings will 
buy back my lost treasure and make tlie old creature happy. I 
was foolish to fear anything. I am very glad I camel ” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

IjESLIE Noble’s parting threat to the Countess Vera that he 
would yet claim her for his own, was not by any means the mere 
momentary ebullition of rage at her cold and scornful rejection 
of his overtures. He fully meant to keep his word. He was 
dazzled by her rank, her prestige, and her wondrous beauty had 
taken his senses captive even before the time when she had de- 
clared herself his wife. 

To win her he would have dared and risked much. It would 
be like mating with a queen and reigning as a sovereign, to share 
the heart, and home and wealth of this beautiful, titled lady. 

Up to the hour when he had sought that memorable interview 
with Lady Vera at Clive House, Lpslie Noble had deluded himself 
with a vain fancy that if he deserted Ivy, and personally soheited 
Vera to become his wife, she would not refuse. 

Some spark of vanity whispered to him that if she had not had 
some personal interest in him she would not so readily have claim- 
ed him as her husband. He knew himself to be handsome, and 
he fancied that he had otoly to repudiate Ivy and acknowledge 
Vera’s claim, to gain full possession of the beautiful girl. 

But her cold, scornful, insulting repulse had fairly maddened 
him, and he had sworn an oath to Mmself, as to her, that he 
would eventually possess her. 

But how to compass that desirable event puzzled liim sorely. 

By her own free confession she was his wife, but he was per- 
fectly aware that it would be utterly futile to try to claim her 
before the law. Her friends were too strong and powerful for 
him to make open war upon her. 

He dreaded that the least move of that nature on his part 
would provoke a suit for bigamy against himself. 

No course remained to him, therefore, but “ treason and strata- 
gem.” He longed to win her, and yet not altogether by brute 
force. Some fancy came to him of how sweet it would be to 
have the love of this beautiful girl, from whom he had recoiled 
in aversion when Mrs. Cleveland had woven that romance about 
her low-born, drunken father, but who seemed so desirable now, 
clothed in all the dazzling externals of wealth, rank, lordly birth, 
and peerless loveliness. So are we all swayed by the extraneous 
circumstances of worldly prosperity. 

Time and again Leslie Noble cursed himself for his wavering 
and cowardice that fatal night when his weak words of regret 
bad driven his friendless, forlorn little child-bride to desperate 


COUNTESS VERA. Ill 

Suicide. All he had lost by that fatal wavering rushed bitterly 
over him. 

“ If I had been true and kind to that poor child as her mother 
wished me to be, I should have reaped a rich reward for my 
fidelity when the Earl of Fairvale came to seek his child. Why 
did I not take her by the hand and calm her trembling fears that 
night by telling her enemies boldly that she was my wife, and I 
would not see her insulted? Ah, it was my weak fancy for that 
shrewish Ivy that ruined all! And how cleverly she and her 
mother played on my fickle feelings! Curses on them both. 
Vile wretches! They are not fit to live in the same world that 
holds my peerless Vera!” 

So it came to pass that, fostering the passion he had conceived 
for Lady Vera, and enraged by her queenly scorn, Leslie Noble 
conceived nefarious designs for abducting the young coimtess and 
bearing her to a place of concealment, where alone and undis- 
turbed, he might plead his cause and peradventure win her heart. 

It was the foolish reasoning of a madman, and in truth Leslie 
Noble was half mad with the violence of his passions, while the 
bitterness of his disappointment only urged him on to fresh en- 
deavors. 

Lady Vera little guessed how her footsteps were dogged and 
her movements watched by this man whom she so loftily de- 
spised. She did not know that when she left London and retired 
to her countiy home for greater security from her enemies, that 
this lover, more ruthless than any foe, had followed her to her 
own neighborhood, and was playing the spy on her movements, 
eager to carry out his base design. 

She little Icaew that it was Leslie Noble who had stolen the 
book from her lap when she fell asleep by the lake that sunny 
day. 

In the advertisement that followed, the crafty wretch saw the 
accomplisMnent of his wicked purpose. 

It was he who, in the guise^f an old woman, had given little 
Hal that crafty letter for Lady Vera. 

It was he who waited now in the cheap and common garb of 
an old and poverty-stricken crone, to meet the fair young girl 
who came so innocent and unsuspecting, with almost a smile of 
triumph on her lips as she thought of meeting Sir Harry Clive 
with her recovered treasure ; thus Leslie Noble waited, like a 
great, poisonous, black spider weaving his web for his innqcent 
prey. 

She comes swiftly along the narrow footpath with a light, 
graceful step, wrapped in the long, dark circular cloak, and hold- 
ing up with both hands the sweeping train of the delicate dinner- 
dress from contact with the dust and the dew. 

The deepening twilight enfolds her in its dim, shadowy light, 
and lends a mysterious aspect to the bent figure of the old hag, 
who grasps with both hands the head of a thick, knotted stick, 
while she waits, with eyes bowed sullenly to the ground, for the 
lady’s coming. 

“ Are you the person who sent for me?” Lady Vera asks, gent- 


112 COUNTESS VENA. 

ly, as she comes to a pause opposite this forbiddir^-Iooking 
figure. 

The hooded head of the old hag is slowly lifted in the darkness 
of the falling twilight. The eyes that regard her so intently are 
shielded by great goggle-glasses. 

“ Yes, if you are I^dy Fairvale,” is the answer, in a muffled 
voice, with a strange croak in it. 

“ I am Lady Fairvale, and I have brought the reward I offered,” 
the coimtess answers, anxiously. ‘ ‘ Have you the memorandum- 
book?” 

“Yes, I have it,” gruffly. 

“ Then pray let me have it at once,” Lady Vera exclaims, with 
some impatience. “ It grows late, and I must huiTy back to my 
waiting guests.” 

“ In a moment, lady,” the strange voice says, wheedlingly. 

“ You see, I was afraid to trust you wholly. I suspected treach- 
ery, so I hid the book in the hedge a little way back here. Walk 
on with me a pace, and you shall have it, my lady.” 

“Go on, I will follow you,” answers the girl. 

She gathers the trailing skirts of her dress in her hands 
again, and walks on after the bent form hobbling painfully with 
the aid of the stick. It is growing veiy dark. 

A cloud has come over the sky. The deep stillness and loneli- 
ness of the spot are broken suddenly by the impatient neigh of a 
horse. 

With a start, Lady Vera turned her head. In that moment, 
two strong arms clasp her as in a vise, her hood is drawn over 
her face to smother her agonized shrieks, and the old woman, 
grown suddenly tall and erect, and strong, bears hpr forcibly to 
a carriage that has been waiting, hidden behind a hedge. 

Her abductor springs in beside her, closes the door, and they 
are whirled away through the falling night, while a dexterous 
sprinkle of chloroform reduces the miserame giii to unconscious- 
ness. ' ^ 

* * * *• * * * a 

Meanwhile, Sir Harry and Lady Clive, repairing to the draw- 
ing-room near the dinner-hour, wonder and speculate upon the 
absence of their hostess. 

She is not wont to keep them waiting, but to-day the great 
dinner-bell clangs twice over, and no swish of silk in the hail, no 
hastening footsteps announce her coming. 

“What can keep Lady Vera?” the lady wonders, aloud. . 
“Usually she is here full half an hour before the time. She is 
never long at her dressing. I wonder ” 

There is a sudden, quick step outside the door, and Sir Harrj^ 
interrupts her with: 

“ Here she is now.” 

The door is opened, but it is only Elsie, the maid, who enters 
the room. Elsie, with her pretty face all pale with fear, her 
cheeks wet with tears, in her hand Lady Vera’s letter. 

“ Sir Harry,” she utters, in a broken voice, “ my lady went out 
into the grounds an hour ago. She gave me this letter for you in 


COUNTESS VERA. 


113 


«aiie she did not return within the hour. The time is past, and I 
have hastened to obey her.” 

A chill premonition of danger thrills his heart as he breaks the 
seal. She has written only a few brief lines, but they are start- 
ling in their nature. 

“ I HAVE gone to meet the writer of the inclosed note. If I do 
not return in an hour you must suspect danger and have search 
made for me.” 

That is all. When he has read the contents of the yellow en- 
velope a groan bursts from his lips as he hands it to his wife. 

“ It is a trap, and she has walked innocently into it, poor girl. 
Doubtless her foes have murdered her ere this,” he exclaims, in 
deep agitation. 

“God forbid,” Lady Clive exclaims, bursting into frightened 
tears. 

There is no thought of dinner now. Sir Harry musters the 
whole force of men-servants, and himself at their head, they sal- 
ly forth to the rescue of their betrayed mistress. 

A beating summer rain has cornmenced to fall, and the night 
is pitchy dark, save for the occasional flashes of lightning that 
flare with blue and lurid fire against the black and stormy sky. 
They divide into separate forces and search frantically till the 
day-dawn. But all trace of Countess Vera is swallowed up in 
the blackness of the stormy, mysterious night. 

In the early dawn, a telegram flashes over the wires to Colonel 
Lockhart in London: 

Come quickly. Vera has been abducted.” 


CHAPTER XXXVH. 

In an obscure but respectable street in London, ]!^Irs. Cleveland 
and Ivy had hidden themselves away in cheap and shabby lodg- 
ings, the better to husband the small hoard of money that re- 
mained to them of all their departed wealth and grandeur. 

“ I will never consent to sell my jewels and dresses, never!” the 
repudiated wife declared, firmly, the ruling passion still strong 
even in her defeat and disgrace. “ For when Leslie finds that 
Vera will not live with him, and when Mr. Gilmore’s lawyers 
prove her to be the adventuress and impostor that she is, he will 
return to me, and I shall he his wife'-again. We wiU return to 
America, where no one knows anything of our trouble, and then 
I shall need my fine dresses and jewels again.” 

“ But what if we come to want in the meantime?’’ Mrs. Cleve- 
land inquires grimly. 

“ You may sell your rubies. They are worth a thousand 
pounds, at least, and the proceeds will keep us comfortable for 
some time,” Ivy answers, with cool insolence. 

So, with the dread of selling her beloved rubies before her eyes, 
Mrs. Cleveland proceeds to practice economy with a vengeance, 
living in the cheapest style with a view to lengthening to its 
utmost capacity the check tjiat Leslie Noble had contemptuously 
thi’own them at their last interview. 


114 


COUNTESS VEBA, 


But tlie wily widow lias her own schemes and plans for the 
future, though she imparts none of them to Ivy, whose selfish- 
ness and insolence have begun to disgust even the wicked and 
crafty woman who bore her. Ivy always contrived to make her- 
self a despised burden to anyone who had aught to do with her. 
Even her mother was sensible of that patent fact. 

In these days of their disgrace and numiliation, the deserted 
wife shut herseJf into her shabby chamber, incessantly bewailing 
her hard fate, and upbraiding her mother for her long-ago sin 
which had been the means of bringing down this vengeance on 
her daughter’s head. Not that I’v^ regretted the wrong that had 
broken the hearts of Lawrence and Edith Campbell, but she was 
exceedingly wroth that the consequences had recoiled upon her 
own devoted head. 

While she nurses her woes in the seclusion of her small, hot 
chamber, Mrs. Cleveland is maturing her plans for the future in 
the shabby-genteel parlor where she is interviewing a visitor — no 
less a person than I^leigh Gilmore. 

Mr. Gilmore, after a calm, dispassionate view, does not appear 
like a man who would honor the title and estates from which he 
is desirous of ousting the present fair incumbent. Lady Fairvale. 
He is tall and thin, and stoop-shouldered, with shaggling, gray 
hair, gray, ferret eyes, and a coarse face on which nature has 
stamped “villain ’’too unmistakably for cavil. So much the 
better for her purpose, the woman thinks to herself as she reads 
the cunning features like an open book. 

The first purport of their interview having been discussed, the 
visitor proceeds to the second. 

“ When I received your letter advising me of your ability and 
wilUngness to furnish evidence to oust that ’ adventuress from 
Fairvale and leave me in possession, you hinted at a reward 
which you should exact in return for your valuable services,” he 
observes, regarding her closely under his shaggy, overhanging, 
gray eyebrows. 

“ Yes,” she remarks, with a cool, self-possessed bow. 

“ I should be glad to know the amount of the sum that will 
compensate your aid,” Mr. Gilmore pursues, as eagerly as if he 
already held the vast wealth of Fairvale within his close, penur- 
ious grasp. 

A slight, mocking smile glances over the wily widow’s hand- 
some, well-preserved face. 

“ You are a bachelor, I have heard,” she answers, in a signifi- 
cant tone. 

“ Yes; I have never liked women well enough to tie myself to 
one,” Mr. Gilmore retorts, with grim frankness. 

The widow tosses her head. 

“I am sorry for that,” she says, audaciously; “I had hoped 
you would like my looks, for I must tell you frankly, that the re- 
ward I claim is to share your good fortune in toto as your wife.” 

He stares at her, growing pale in his angry amazement. 

“ There will be a kind of poetic compensation in such a mar- 
riage,” Mrs. Cleveland pursues, coolly enjoying his rage. “I 
loved Lawrence Campbell, but my half-sister stole his heart from 


COUNTESS VERA. 


116 


me. By rights I should have been his wife, and in course of 
time, Countess of Fair vale. No reward will satisfy me except to 
step into Vera Campbell’s place and reign absolute sovereign 
wheye she has queened it so long. You see I do not offer to take 
away anything from you, only to share it with you.” 

“But, Mrs. Cleveland — madam — I have already explained to 
you that I am prejudiced against women. I do not wish to mar- 
ry,” protests the old bachelor, finding voice after his first sur- 
prise. 

“ So you reject me?” she inquires, with an air of chagrin. 

“ Yes, decidedly yes,” he returns, nervously. “ Be pleased to 
name some other reward.” 

“ I have already explained to you that nothing will satisfy me 
except to be Countess of Fairvale. I wish to ride rough shod 
over Vera Campbell’s heart, and in no other way could I be re- 
venged so well as in taking her own place. Since you deny me 
this small grace I decline to help you to the earldom, and all that 
we have said about it goes for nothing,” returns the widow, with 
the utmost frankness. 

Anger almost gets the better of Mr. Gilmore for a moment, but 
crushing back the words upon his lips, he looks steadily at the 
speaker in blank silence. 

“ You do not find me very bad-looking, do you?” she inquires, 
wdth an air of unruffled good nature. 

“ On the contrary, I think you decidedly handsome and well- 
preserved. I never expected to be courted by so fine-looking a 
woman. Do you consider me handsome, madam?” 

“ Not at all. You are abominably ugly,” she replies, after a 
calm scrutiny of his face. “ If I marry you, it will not be for any 
personal merit you possess, only as a stepping-stone to power.” 

“ You are very candid, but since you have the balance of power 
in yout hands, you can afford to speak freely. Madam, I offer 
you my heart, hand and fortune, will you accept them?” he ex- 
claims, in grim displeasure. 

“ Are you in earnest?” she inquires. 

“Never more so. You have left me no alternative,” he an- 
swers, bitterly. “ But I warn you, I shall not make a very lov- 
ing husband.” 

“ Nor I a loving w^ife. But I accept you as I said just now, as 
a stepping-stone to power,” she replies, with provoking coolness. 

He rises to depart. 

“It is settled, then,” he observes, with forced complaisance. 
You will help me to the earldom, and I will pay you by making 
you my brides When shall the wedding be?” 

“ On the day when you take possession of Fairvale’s title and 
estates,” she answers, promptly. revoivy my charming 

bridegroom.” 


CHAPTER XXXVHI. 

Ere Lady Vera fully recovers consciousness again, she has 
reached her destination, the ruins of a once fine old manBion in 
the heart of a dense wood near the sea. 


118 


COUNTESS VERA, 


She opens her eyes in a large and lofty upper chamber to find 
herself lying in a high, old-fashioned, four posted bed, with faded 
hangings of crimson velvet. Two waxen candles in silver can- 
delabra on the tall, carved mantel shed a soft, steady light 
through the room, and by their aid Vera deciphers the features 
of a stout, middle-aged woman, in cap and apron, who is bending 
over her, bathing her face and hands with aromatic vinegar. 

The beautiful ^irl springs up to a sitting posture with a cry 
of fear and indignation, and with outstretched hands repulses 
the woman. 

“Do not touch me, wretch!” she cries. “How dared you 
bring me here, away from my home and friends? You shall suf- 
fer for this.” 

But the woman only smiles as if at the ravings of a spoiled 
child. 

“ My lady, you are mistaken,” she answers, not unkindly. “ It 
was your husband who brought you here. I am only your maid. 
I am here to wait upon you.” 

“ I have no husband,” Lady Vera answers, with a cold thriU of 
fear creeping around her heart. 

“ Oh, my lady, don’t go for to say that,” the woman answers, 
cajolingly. “ Such a kind, handsome man as Mr. Noble is ought 
not to be denied by his wife. I’m sure it was very good in him 
to caiTy you off, and hide you from the people as wanted to put 
you into a lunatic asylum. The keepers would have abused you 
dreadfully, my poor dear, but I shall be as kind and patient with 
you as your own mother. Your husband is that tender-hearted 
he couldn’t bear to see you iU-used.” 

“So it is Leslie Noble who has abducted me,” Lady Vera 
thinks to herself, with a start. Up to that moment her suspic- 
ions had turned upon Marcia Cleveland. “ The wretch! And he 
has pretended to this woman that I am crazy.” 

The crimson color uies into the captive’s face, then retreats, 
leaving her deathly pale again. She rises and walks up to the 
woman, who retreats half-fearfully before her. 

“ You need not fear me,” Lady Vera tells her, sadly. “ I have 
no intention of harming you. I only wish to ask you a simple 
question.” 

Thus adjured, the woman waits respectfully, humoring the 
whim of her mistress. 

“ Look at me,” says Lady Vera, lifting the dark fringe of her 
brilliant, star-like eyes, and fixing a calm, steady gaze on the 
woman’s face. “ Do I look like a mad person ? You know that 
lunatics have a wild, dangerous glare in their eyes. Are not 
mine calm, reasonable, steady?” 

“ She is one of the cunning ones,” the maid mutters to her- 
self, then aloud, soothingly, she answers : “ They are beautiful 
eyes, my lady, so bright and black ! No wonder my master 
adores you, so lovely as you are.” 

“I tell you I am not mad,” Vera cries impatiently, vexed at 
the woman’s stolid persistence in her belief. “I am as sane as 
you are, and your master is a villain. He has abducted me from 


COmTESS VERA. 


117 


iny fnends and my home, but they will trace me out and punish 
him for his villany, be sure of that.” 

“ Come, my dear, do not excite yourself. It will all come 
well. Sit down in tliis arm-chair, and make yourself comfort- 
able, while I go and fetch your lunch and a cup of tea. I dare 
say you have had no dinner, traveling so far.” 

She wheels forward a large, crimson-cushioned easy-chair, but 
Lady Vera rejects it with a gesture of scorn. 

“Where is the man you call your master?” she inquires, 
haughtily. “Is he in the house?” 

“Yes, my lady. Should you be pleased to see him?” inquires 
her keeper, deferentially. 

“ Yes; tell him to come. I wish to know the meaning of this 
dastardly outrage,” the countess answers, indignantly. 

The woman withdraws with a bow. The click of a key in the 
lock informs Lady Vera that she is a prisoner. She paces up 
and down the floor, a storm of indignation raging in her breast, 
mixed with a wild hope that her friends will soon deliver her 
from the trap into which she had walked so unsuspectingly. 

Suddenly the key clicks in the lock, and Leslie Noble walks 
boldly into the room. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

PoR a moment they regard each other silently, Mr. Noble ap- 
pearing handsome and elegant as usual, having removed the dis- 
figuring toggery that had transformed him into a stooping old 
woman, and Lady Vera facing him with her slight form drawn 
haughtily erect, the scorn of an outraged queen flashing in her 
dark and star-like eyes. 

“Coward, villain, how dared you perpetrate this high-handed 
outrage?” she demands, in a clear, high voide, that trembles with 
its bitter anger. 

Por answer he throws himself abjectly at her feet. 

“Vera, my love, my darling, my wife, my passionate love 
must plead my excuse. I loved you and I could not live with- 
out you. So I brought you away where I might have some 
chance to plead my cause with you and win your heart,” he 
j/answers, weakly, still kneeling there, and gazing at her with 
'^adoring eyes. 

A scornful laugh ripples over the listener’s beautiful lips as she 
retreats from him to the furthest corner of the room. 

“ And did you think this craven course could win my heart?” 
she asks, with stinging contempt. “Was it a manly, a lovable 
feat to don the rags of a poor and feeble old woman, that you 
might kidnap a weak girl who hated you? Was it to surrender 
my heart to the handsome and manly figure you appeared on 
that occasion?” 

He writhes beneath the keen lash of her superb scorn. 

“Edward Rochester masqueraded as an old woman, and yet 
Jane Eyre loved and admired him as her hero among men,” he 
anwers, sullenly, rising to his feet. 

“There is no parallel between the cases,” she answers, icily. 


113 


COUNTESS VERA. 


“ You can bring no precedent from fiction or history that could 
make me admire you, either in your own form or any other. I 
despise you, I have always despised you, and I warn you that 
my friends will rescue me out of your power. I left your lying 
note behind me with dii-ections that I must be sought for if I 
failed to return. Even now they are searching for me. At any 
moment I expect them to rescue me.” 

He pales at first, then laughs easily. 

“You were more crafty than I deemed you, but I am not 
frightened,” he answers. “ Do you know where you are? You 
are thirty miles from Fairvale Park, in the midst of a dense 
wood.' You are occupying the only habitable chamber in a ruin- 
ed and deserted old mansion, whose owner is in Egypt. The 
place has the name of being haunted, and no one ever ventures 
into the vicinity. I have hired the woman you saw just now at 
an extravagant bribe to remain here to guard and wait on you. 
I have sworn to her that you are mad, and she firmly believes 
me. She will regard all you say as the aimless ravings of a 
lunatic. Now do you believe it likely that you will soon be de- 
livered out of my power?” 

She has no answer ready for him now. Despair has stricken 
her dumb. 

“It does not rest with your friends, it does not rest with me to 
say when you shall go free,” he pursues, coolly. “It is all for 
you to say. Lady Vera. I am ready to make a treaty of peace 
with you at any time.” 

“How?” she asks, with white lips. 

“You are my wife,” he answers. “ I love you, and if you will 
consent to acknowledge my claim upon you, and five with me, I 
will take you back to Fairvale Park to-morrow.” 

“ And do you thiqk I would purchase freedom upon such ig- 
nominious terms?” she asks, with a curling lip. “ Live with you, 
coward to your first wife, traitor to your second? Not for an 
liour. I would pine to death in this loathsome prison first, and 
die thanking Heaven for my happy release from the arts of a 
villain.” 

“You forget that you are here alone, defenseless, utterly in 
my power,” he answers, pale with anger and shame. “What is 
there to prevent me from forcing you to do my will?” 

Crimson for a moment, then pale as death again, Countess 
Vera hfts her hand. 

“God is here,” she answers, solemnly, “ God is here, and He 
will protect me. I tell you frankly,” she goes on with vehement 
emphasis, “I will kill you, or I will kill myself before I will 
yield to your wiU. Do not attempt to drive me desperate.” 

Pale with rage, he thrusts his hand into his breast and with- 
draws the missing memorandum-book. 

Lady Vera’s face lights up at that sight. 

“ So you did have it,” she cries out, quickly. “You are a thief 
as well as an abductor of helpless women! Oh, for shame, for 
shame!” 

His face grows black as night. 

“As you are in my power, you would do well to moderate youi* 


COUNTESS VERA. 


m 

language,” he answers, in the low tone of bitter rage, “ Beware 
how_you transform my love to hate!” 

“ I fear neither your love nor your hate,” Countess Vera an- 
swers, dauntlessly. 

“ Perhaps you will pay a heavier ransom for this book than you 
would have done simply for your freedom — will you not?” 

“Is the same ransom required?” she asks, regarding him 
steadily.” 

“Yes.” 

“ I would purchase no earthly boon at so terrible a price,” 
Countess Vera answers, shuddering. 

“ Not even title, wealth and power?” he asks, significantly. 

“ All three I can claim already,” she answers, with a gesture 
of unconscious pride. 

“ But if you must lose all without this little talisman?” he in- 
quires, in the same significant tone, and regarding her intently. 

“I can do without the talisman, as you call it,” she answers, 
coldly. “Before I fell asleep that day, every word of my father’s 
memorandum was fixed in my memory. I have written to Joel 
McPherson to come to England and establish my identity with 
that of the girl who was buried alive in Glenwood Cemetery.” 

For a moment Leslie Noble stares blankly at his beautiful op- 
ponent, dismayed at her calm declaration. 

“ By Jove! but you are a keen one,” he mutters, unable to re- 
press a glance of angry admiration. “ You seem to antidlpate 
everything. I did not credit you with such a ready brain. And 
so you have written to Joel McPherson?” 

“ Yes,” she answers, with a ^ittle note of triumph in her voice. 

“Yes, and I have written to a friend of mine in Washington 
to keep the sexton of Glenwood out of the way by force, or fraud, 
or bribe; you will never see him in England until he comes by 
my will,” he answers, insolently. 

Coldly disdainful, she makes him no reply. 

“ Do you know what will happen to you if you continue to 
defy me?” he goes on, angrily. “ Raleigh Gilmore is about to 
begin a suit against you. His aim is to prove you an impostor. 
Mrs. Cleveland is aiding and abetting him in the endeavor. She 
hates you so bitterly that she will stop at nothing to drag you 
down from your high estate. They will succeed, unless Joel 
McPherson’s evidence can be given against them. With the old 
sexton lies the only real knowledge of that night’s mystery, when 
Vera Campbell was removed from the grave where I myself saw 
her laid. You alone can never prove that Earl Fairvale’s heiress 
rose from that grave again.” 

He pauses, but her bloodless lips offer no reply. 

“Admit my rights as your husband, Vera, and I will fight 
with you and by your side for the grand heritage your father 
left you. I will summon Joel McPherson to your aid and prove 
your identity beyond all cavil. Deny me and I swear I will be 
terribly revengeful for your obstinacy. I will join the ranks of 
your enemies. I will deny that you are my wife. Your defeat 
will be certain then. Think of yourself penniless, friendless, 
brandy all over England ns an adventuress and impostor,” 


120 


COUNTESS VERA. 


The beautiful face is deadly pale, the hands are clenched until 
the pink nails cut into the delicate palms. In silent agony she 
admits to herself that his threats are not at all idle ones. Sir 
Harry Clive’s reluctant communications have prepared her for 
all this. 

“ Well, what have you to say to all this?” he asks of the silent 
figure beWe him. 

“ Nothing. I know that of myself I am utterly powerless. I 
leave my cause with God,” she answers, briefly. 

He smothers a curse on his dark mustached lips. 

“ So you will lose all rather than take me for your husband?” 
he asks her, in unfeigned amazement. 

She lifts her eyes for a moment, and surveys him with a look 
of steady contempt. 

Have you still any doubt on that point ?” she inquires, fear- 
lessly and defiantly. “Let me assure you then that I would 
rather be a homeless beggar in the streets of London than submit 
to your loathsome love!” 

The look, the tone, the words, fill him with blind, overmaster- 
ing rage. 

“By Heaven, I will make you repent those words!” he ex- 
claims, springing toward her and clasping his arm around her 
slender waist. 

But with one piercing cry of terror Countess Vera puts her 
hand into her breast and withdraws a tiny, jewel-hilted dagger. 

Maddened with fear, she thrusts the keen blade into the arm 
that holds her so tightly, and with a scream of pain the villain 
releases her and retreats to the door. 

“ Oh, Mr. Noble, your aim is all bleeding!” exclaims the woman, 
entering at that moment with the tea-tray. 

“Yes, my wife is in one of her occasional violent fits, and has 
tried to murder me,” he answers, shortly. 

“She has a dagger which you must try to get away from her 
or she may hurt you too. Lock her into the room now and come 
down and dress my wound for me,” he adds, stalking out of the 
room. 


CHAPTER XL. 

The woman advanced into the room and deposited her tea-tray 
on the table. A tempting little lunch was arranged upon it in 
a pretty china service. 

“ Come, Mrs. Noble, and drink your tea while it is still warm,” 
she said, coaxingly. “ I know you are tired and hungry. Will 
you take a bit of this chicken salad and cold sliced ham? ’Twill 
do you good.” 

“I have no appetite, thank you,” Vera answers, turning her 
head aside. 

“Well, I’ll leave the tray with you while I go and bind up 
master’s wounded arm. Mayhap you’ll eat by-and-bye,” the 
woman answers kindly as she goes out, carefully locking the door 
behind her. 

I^eft to herself, Lady Vera draws a long breath of relief, and 


COUI^TESS VERA, 121 

turning to a window, draws aside the heavy velvet curtain, 
glancing anxiously out for any possible prospect of release. 

Alas! her captor’s words proved all too true. The first faint 
beams of dawn rising palely in the east, show her the wide, 
dense belt of woodland surrounding the ruined mansion in which 
she is imprisoned. 

The wild, tangled garden beneath the window sends up gusts 
of rainy perfume to her eager senses. She pushes up the sash 
and leans out, inhaling the fresh, sweet air, and wondering if it 
would not be possible to escape through the .window from this 
horrible trap into which her credulity had led her. 

Alas! her eager, downward glance shows her that she is in the 
third story of the house. 

She drops the heavy curtain and sinks shivering to a seat, worn 
and trembling with the terrible experiences of the night. Her 
thoughts fiy to the home from whence she has been so rudely 
tom. 

“Are they frightened? Are they seeking for me, I wonder?’’ 
she thinks. “ Oh, may God guide them in their search!” 

And then she thinks of her lost lover, handsome, manly Philip 
Lockhart. She knows how heavily the blow will fall on that 
true, manly, loving heart. 

She leans her head wearily down on her arm, and gives 
herself up to the sad, sweet pleasure of thinking of Phihp Lock- 
hart. Gradually a weary sleep steals over her, from which she is 
awakened by the entrance of her keeper. 

“Asleep, dear? Pm sorry I awakened ye,” she says, blandly. 
“ Do you feel better of your httle fit of temper?” 

Lady Vera makes no answer to this kind query. 

“ Mr. Noble has gone up to London,” pursues the maid, glibly. 
“ He left his love and good-bye for you. You gave him quite an 
ugly cut, so you did, my pretty lady. Won’t you let poor old 
Betsy Robson see the pretty little knife you did it with?” she con- 
tinues, coaxingly. 

Lady Vera lifts her eyes and regards her calmly. 

“Betsy Robson, if that is your name,” she said, “ hstento me a 
moment. I have a dagger concealed on my person, and LesUe 
Noble has set you on to take it from me. I warn you that if 
you make the slightest attempt to do so, it will be at the peril 
of your life. It is my only weapon of defense against Leshe 
Noble, and I will never part with it while I am in that villain’s 
power.” 

“ Oh, fie, my lady, why should you be so set against your lov- 
ing husband?” remonstrates Mrs. Robson. 

Lady Vera regards her keenly. 

“Are you acting apart, or do you really believe what that 
man tells you?” she asks, vronderingly. “ I tell you Leslie Noble 
has no claim on me at all. He is a vilinin who has stolen me away 
from my home and friends to try to force me to be his wife. I 
am Lady Fairvale, of Faiiwale Park, and if you will restore me to 
my liberty, Mrs. Robson, I will reward you generously.” 

The dark eyes, full of bitter tears now, are lifted pleadingly to 


123 


C0UNT.E88 VERA, 


the woman’s stolid face, but the wild appeal only elicits some 
words under Betsy Robson’s breath: 

“ Poor soul I He told me she fancied she was some great, rich 
lady. A pitv she is so wild-like. So lovely as she is, too, and 
might be sucLa pride to her handsome husband.” 

Countess Vera turns away her head with a heart-wrung cry. 

“ Oh, may God forgive you, woman, for lending yourself to 
this wicked conspiracy against a wronged girl! Surely He who 
reigns above will send me safe deliverance from my prison- 
house.” 

“ Poor, pretty creature, raving mad, that she is,” comments 
stupid, yet kind-hearted Betsy Robson. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

The utmost dismay and horror settled down upon the house- 
hold at Fairvale Park when it was found that every trace of 
Lady Vera’s whereabouts was swallowed up in impenetrable 
darkness and mystery. 

Sir Harry and Lady Clive believed that Mrs. Cleveland was the 
guilty party who had decoyed her from her home, and they fore- 
boded that the too-confiding girl had been murdered in cold 
blood by her ruthless foe. Little Hal’s story of the woman who 
had given him the note for Lady Vera in the wood confirmed 
them in their first suspicions, and they bitterly bewailed Lady 
Vera’s mistaken clemency in letting her would-be murderess go 
free that night in London. 

But when Colonel Lockhart came down from London that 
evening in response to their telegram, though he was almost dis- 
tracted by this new and crushing blow to his happiness, the quick 
instinct of love turned his suspicions unerringly to the truth. 

“ It is not Mrs. Cleveland who has abducted Lady Vera. I can- 
not believe it for an instant. She would not have ventured on 
such a course,” he says, decidedly ; “Leslie Noble is the guilty 
party.” 

“ Then what are we to do, Phihp ?” Ladv Clive asks, piteously. 

“We must oppose cunning to cuuning,’’ he answers, thought- 
fully. “ I shall return to London to-night and employ a skillful 
detective to shadow Leshe Noble’s every footstep. You may be 
sure that the wretch has shut Lady Vera up in some obscure 
place in the hope of coercing her to yield to his wishes. Oh, 
Heaven, what anguish may not my darling be suffering now 
while I am powerless to rescue her !’’ 

He walks distractedly up and down the floor, while tears of not 
unmanly grief gather in his troubled blue eyes. 

“But, Philip, you forget that it was a woman who gave little 
Hal the note for Lady Vera,” exclaims Sir Harry, unwilling to 
give up his theory of Mrs. Cleveland’s handiwork in the ab- 
duction. 

“Leslie Noble may have employed a woman as his tool in the 
affair, or he may have masqueraded in female attire himself, but 
lam sure that he is the guilty party,” Colonel Lockhart answers, 
unshaken in his conviction. “But to satisfy your doubts, Sir 


COUNTESS VERA. 


125 


Harry, we will have a watch set upon Mrs. Cleveland also. 
Nothing shall be left undone that can possibly tend to the rescue 
of Lady Vera from the power of her enemies.” 

He goes back to London that night. 

Sir Harry Clive and his family follow him the next day. Two 
of the most skillful detectives in London are quietly set on tl)e 
track of the supposed guilty parties. All London rings with the 
story of the daring abduction of the beautiful Countess of Fai:- 
vale. 

At first public opinion was strong against the Clevelands and 
Mr. Noble, but when it is discovered that all three are living 
quietly but openly in London, a doubt falls on the first sus- 
picions. An inexplicable mystery centers around that strange 
disappearance. 

The sensation grows all the greater because, simultaneously 
with her disappearance, Ealeigh Gilmore had entered suit against 
her for the title and estates of Fairvale, alleging that the true 
heiress had died in her early girlhood, and that the late earl had 
foisted an impostor on the public as his daughter. 

But pending the return of the missing countess, the lawsuit 
lay in abeyance. Nothing could be done in her absence, and con- 
jecture became rife over the strange circumstances of her abduc- 
tion. Various opinions were advanced. 

Raleigh Gilmore did not hesitate to assert his conviction that 
there had been no abduction in the case. Lady Vera had simply 
run away from fear of the threatened suit against her, knowing 
that she could not defend herself against the prosecution, and 
ashamed to stay and face the trial where she would be branded as 
a beautiful and lying impostor whom the late earl had adopted 
as his daughter. 

There was not the slightest likelihood that she would ever re- 
turn, he asserted, vehemently, and he would have liked to take 
possession of Fairvale at once, but the strong arm of the law 
held him back, and meanwhile, Sir Harry Chve engaged the 
most eminent lawyers to defend the missing heiress. 

A man was sent to America to collect information at Washing- 
ton. No pains nor expense was spared on either side to make th^e 
contest a close and exciting one. Raleigh Gilmore found few be- 
lievers in his cause, and few friends. 

But amid all the storm of wonder and conjecture in London, 
there was one woman whose suspicions had pointed, hke Philip 
Lockhart’s, unerringly to the truth. This was Ivy Cleveland. Her 
jealous instincts had at once settled upon her whilom husband 
as the abductor of Lady Vera. 

Meanwhile the weeks wane slowly with no tidings of the lost 
one. The blackest mystery enshrouds her fate. The keen de- 
tectives are baffled and thrown off the scent by Leslie Noble’s 
inimitable sang froid. He leads the careless life of a man 
about town, never leaving the city, his slightest actions open to 
scrutiny, no mystery seeming to be hidden under his comings 
and goings. 

But though the detectives begin to hint that they are beating 


m COUNTESS VERA, 

about the wrong bush, Colonel Lockhart’s firm convictions are 
in no wise altered. 

He holds them closely to their duty, thougli they find noth- 
ing suspicious either in the movements of Mr. Noble or Mrs, 
Cleveland. 

But though Colonel Lockhart is outwardly so calm and firm, 
his noble heart is wrung with despair over the fate of his lost 
Vera. 

“ My poor Phil, this terrible sorrow is making an old man of 
you,” his sister sighs, sorrowfully, as she threads her jeweled 
fingers softly through his hair. 

“ It is hard lines upon me, that is true, Nella,” he answers, 
with a repressed sigh, as he draws his arm around her waist. 


CHAPTER XLH. 

In spite of his outward nonchalance and sang froid, Leslie Noble 
at heart was restless and impatient and consumed by a burning 
anxiety. 

Six weeks had elapsed since he had incarcerated his beautiful 
prisoner in the ruined old house in the wood, and in all that time 
he had been afraid to venture back to see her, owing to a keen 
suspicion he had imbibed regarding the close espionage that was 
kept upon his movements by the employes of Colonel Lockhart. 

The slight flesh wound Lady Vem had inflicted on his arm had 
entirely healed, and with it had died out his futile anger against 
her, giving place again to the weak love that had urged hun to 
that desperate recourse of abducting her. 

“ I was rash and hasty in my last interview with her,” he tells 
himself, “ I should have remembered that love cannot be forced. 
I must woo her gently, with respectful looks and reverential 
words. I must sue for her favor humbly, as if she were a queen 
and I her humble slave. Many a woman has been won by flat- 
tery.” 

The longing came over him to woo her with rich gifts and cost- 
ly jewels poured lavishly at her feet as if naught were too splen- 
did and costly for his beautiful idol. 

Alas! his splendid fortune had dwindled to a wretched compe- 
tency under the various extravagances of Ivy and her mother. 

“ Weak fool that I was to allow Ivy to retain those magnificent 
jewels,” he thinks, bitterly. “ She ruthlessly sacrificed my fortune 
to obtain them, and by every right on earth they belong to Lady 
Vera, who is my real wife, not to fhe woman who usurped her 
place.” 

Fostering these thoughts and feelings ceaselessly in his breast, 
Leslie Noble at last conceived a dastardly design to possess him- 
self of the jewels which he had at first decided should remain the 
property of his deserted and repudiated second wife. 

Accordingly one morning, when he had ascertained that his 
mother-in-law was away from home, and not likely to return 
for several hours, he sent up his card to Ivy, who, after some 
little delay in arranging her toilet, received him in the shabby- 
genteel little parlor. 


COUNTESS VERA. 


135 


In th« trembling hope that she might yet win back the re- 
creant, Ivy had made herself as fair as she could without the 
assistance of her maid, with whose services her mother’s parsim- 
ony had compelled her to dispense. 

“Overdressed and daubed with paint, as usual,” was Mr. 
Noble’s disgusted, inward comment, but he allowed none of this 
feeling to appear upon his face. Instead, he threw a glance of 
deep tenderness and contrition into his soft, dark eyes, and held 
out his arms, exclaiming sadly: 

“My injured wife! Can you ever forgive me the sorrow I 
have caused you ?” 

“ Oh, Leslie, you have repented I” the lady sobs, throwing her- 
self into the open arms. 

And for a while we will draw the curtain of absence over this 
touching picture of sacred conjugal love and reunion, while we 
seek others of our friends. 

******** 

On the afternoon of that same day Colonel Lockhart received 
a call from the chief detective. 

“I have discovered,” he says briefly, “that Mr. Noble has 
hired a conveyance to take him down into the country about 
twen^-flve miles to-night.” 

“ Well?” Colonel Lockhart inquires, his blue eyes blazing with 
excitement. 

“ I have hired a fast trap for myseK, and intend to give secret 
chase to the gentleman,” Mr. Sharp replies. 

“ That is right. I will accompany you,” decides his employer, 
eagerly, and vdth a springing hope in his breast. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


It is late noon when Mrs. Cleveland returns to her lodgings, 
and finds Ivy lounging on a sofa in the shabby parlor, in a state 
of blissful beatitude. 

“You have been out. Ivy?” she exclaims, in surprise, glancing 
at the elegant carriage dress of brocaded black silk and spark- 


“ Yes,” Ivy answers complacently. 

“Where?” her mother inquires, surprised, for hitherto Ivy 
has spent all her time in the seclusion of her chamber, bewailing 
her untoward fate. 

“I have been — ^to the jeweler’s,” Mrs. Noble answers, wi 
shining eyes, and enjoying her mother’s amazement with all the 
zest of one who has taken new hold on life. 


Mrs. Cleveland lifts her kidded hands in real dismay. 

“You have never been selling your jewels — oh, Ivy I” she 


“ Don’t be a fool, mother 1” cries the dutiful daughter. “ Of 
course I haven’t sold them. You know I would die before I 
would part with my diamonds I” 

“ Then why have you been to the jeweler’s?” Mrs. Cleveland 
asks, sharply, and Ivy answers, with a little, cunning, trium- 
phant laugn; 


126 


COUNTESS VERA. 


“I have left my pearls and diamonds to be reset. You know 
I have vranted them reset every since we came to London. At 
last I have my wish, and they are to be done in truly royal 
style.” 

Mrs. Cleveland stares at the speaker, the color fading from her 
cheeks and lips, her eyes startled. 

“And who is to pay for this last mad extravagance of yours?” 
she demands, in a low, angry voice. 

“Leshe Noble, of course,” Ivy answers, laughing in her 
mother’s face. 

“ She is mad, I fear — stark, raving mad,” Mrs. Cleveland ex- 
claims, gazing apprehensively at her daughter. 

“ Oh, no, I am not, mamma. Leslie was with me at the 
jeweler’s. He has been here and begged my*pardon for every- 
thing. He does not believe now that Lady Fairvale is his wife. 
I am going to live with him again.” 

“Where? At Darnley House?” Mrs. Cleveland asks, almost 
stupefied at this unexpected news. 

“No, for Darnley House is sold, and he cannot get it back. 
But he means to take another just as fine for me, and I am to 
choose all the furniture. Oh, mamma, he is so sorry for the bad 
way in which he treated me. He loves me still. There is noth- 
ing strange about that, is there, that you look so incredulous ? 1 
was his first love, you know. And he thinks me beautiful still. 
He is ready to do anything to prove his repentance.” 

“Ifid you put him to the test?” ]\Irs. Cleveland inquires, ironi- 



“ Yes, indeed ! You know how often ho has refused to have 
my jewels reset for me. So I said, ‘ if you really mean that, 
Leslie, let me have my.pearls and diamonds put into a more ele- 
gant setting.’ ” 

“ Oh!” groans Mrs. Cleveland, wringing her hands. 

“ He was delighted at the idea,” pursues Ivy, triumphantly, 
“ and proposed that we should see about it at once. We drove 
down to the jeweler’s, taking the pearls and diamonds with us. 
I selected the design for the settings at a terrible outlay, but 
Leslie did not murmur. He was glad to be forgiven on any 
terms.” 

“ Oh!” Mrs. Cleveland groans again. 

“ Mother, I never saw you act so much like a simpleton !” Ivy 
exclaims. “ Leslie is coming again to-morrow. He wants you 
to forgive him, too.” 

“Oh, Ivy, you blind, credulous, silly little fool!” exclaims 
Mrs. Cleveland, in a towering passion. 

“ What do mean?” the daughter cries, indignantly, springing to 
her feet. 

“ I mean that you will never see Leslie Noble or your jewels 
agian. It was all a plot to rob you of them. He has taken them 
for Vera, whom he has abducted and hidden away in obscurity.” 

“ He denies the charge, mamma. He believes with Mi\ Gilbert 
that Vera has run away herself. But my jewels — oh, majuma, 
do ^ou reaUy believe he would rob me of them? Let us go dowji 


COUNTESS VERA. 127 

to tho jeweler’s and bring them back at once,” exclaims Ivy, in 
feverish terror. 

“ I will go with you, but I doubt if we shall find them there. 
He would no doubt take them away on sonde clever pretext as 
soon as he left you. Oh, how foolish you were to trust that vil- 
lain’s exaggerated repentance.” 

Let us go,” Ivy answers, with feverish energy, tying on her 
bonnet, and huriying her mother from the room. 

The sequel proved Mrs. Cleveland right. 

Leslie Noble had already taken away the jewels on the shallow 
pretext of his wife’s change of mind. Poor Ivy was driven back 
to her lodgings, this time in real genuine hysterics. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

‘‘This is no time for hysterics. Ivy,” Mrs. Cleveland tells her 
daughter sharply. “You would do better to rally your strength 
and calmness, and consider what you are to do to get back your 
jewels.” 

Ivy struggles up to a sitting posture, her pale-blue eyes all 
drowned in tears over the loss of her diamonds — the golden calf 
of her vain heart’s worship. 

“If you have nothing to do bu ridicule me, you had better 
leave the room,” cries Ivy, flushing to angriest crimson. “I 
thought you were going to suggest something to help me.” 

“ That would be hard to do,” Mrs. Cleveland answers, with an 
irrepressible angry sneer. 

Never in all her life has she been so angry with her silly, petted 
daughter. 

Ivy bursts into petulant sobs again, bewailing her fate in having 
such a hard-hearted mother and wicked husband. 

“ I wilJ go and see Mr. Noble, if you wish me,” Mrs. Cleveland 
announces, after a moment’s pause. 

“ Oh, pray do, mamma,” her daughter cries out eagerly. “ Per- 
liaps you may get them back for me, if you manage him right. 
Leslie used to be quite under your thumb.” * 

“ That was long ago,” Mrs. Cleveland answers, dryly. “But I 
will do the best I can to remedy your dreadful mistake.” 

StiU in her street dress, she has only to tie on her bonnet and 
depart on her mission. 

Ivy, after hearing the door close behind her, lies down again, 
with a sigh of relief and a sensation of hope in her breast. She 
has great faith in the diplomatic powers of her mother. 

After waiting in suspense an hour or two she falls asleep easily 
on the corner of the sofa and dreams that she is an eastern queen 
and that her robe of cloth of gold is all frosted with sparkling 
diamonds. 

The gray dusk is falling when Mrs. Cleveland re-enters the 
room. She stands for some moments looking down at Ivy’s wan, 
sleeping face, with the trace of tears still on the pale, tliin cheeks, 
then wakes her with an impatient shake. 

“ I should have thought that your suspense would be too gi’eat 


128 


COUNTESS VEEA. 


to allow you to sleep so profoundly,” she exclaims wratlifully, 
her ill-temper hightened by non-success in her errand. 

“Oh, mamma, I felt so relieved when you went after Leslie, 
and so sure that you would get the diamonds, that I fell asleep 
without knowing it,” Ivy answers, with some contrition. “ But, 
mamma, you saw him — he gave them back, did he not?” she 
continued, eagerly, stretching out her hand for her treasures. 

For answer, Mrs. Cleveland holds up her empty hands expres* 
sively, and Ivy utters a w^ail of woe. 

“ What did he say to you?” Ivy inquires, after a httle, pausing 
in her angry sobs. 

“I did not see him. He had gone out, and his servant could 
not tell me where,” her mother answers. 

“Then you will go again to-morrow. He will be at home 
then,” Ivy exclaims, with renewed hope. 

“ No, for he is leaving town to-night,” is the short reply. 

“Leaving town!” Ivy’s voice and look are full of consterna- 
tion. 

“ Yes, I learned that much by bribing his servant. He is going 
down into the country to-night in a hired conveyance, some 
twenty-five miles or more.” 

“ For what reason?” Ivy asks, dimly divining a certain signifi- 
cance in her mothers manner. 

“ I do not know, but I strongly suspect it is to visit his cap- 
tive countess, and present her with your diamonds,” Mrs. Cleve- 
land answers, divining the truth with a woman’s ready wit. 

“ Oh, mamma!” screams Ivy. 

“But I intend to foUow him,” pursues Mrs. Cleveland, “I 
mean to checkmate him if I can.” 

“ I am going with you— remember that, mamma,” her daughter 
cries out, hastily. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

While Lady Vera’s friends are seeking with heavy hearts 
some clew to her strange fate, the fair young countess, half dis- 
tracted with grief, remains a closely-guarded captive in the 
ruined mansion in the lonely wood. In spite of all her tears and 
protestations Betsy Robson persists in believing her to be a dan- 
gerous lunatic, and in treating her as such, albeit always kind 
and complaisant as to an ailing child. 

The summer days glide slowly past, each one bearing some 
portion of hope from Vera’s lonely heart. With the dawn of 
each day she had hoped for release— with the sunset of each day 
she had wept over her disappointment. The days were so long 
and lonely without books, music or occupation to beguile them 
of their length and dreariness. It seemed to Lady Vera almost 
as if she were dead and buried, living in this lonely house, seeing, 
hearing no one save stolid Betsy Rcmson, who glided about like 
{mother ghost in this strange world of the dead. 

“If rescue does not come soon I shall either die or go mad, as 
that woman already believes me to be,” Lady Vera tells hei-self 
in a passion of despair. 


C0UNTE88 VERA. 


129 


She wonders why Philip does not come to her aid. In her de- 
spair and loneliness bitter thoughts begin to creep into her mind. 

“Perhaps he has no care over me now that I am lost to him 
forever,” she thinks. “He has turned to Miss Montgomery or 
Lady Eva, perhaps. Either one would be glad enough to console 
him.” 

From the world without there came no answer to these silent 
accusations against her lost lover. The world seemed dead to 
her as she appeared to it. All her companions were memory 
and sorrow. 

As the weeks rounded slowly into a month. Lady Vera’s fierce 
anger against Leslie Noble, her restlessness, her impatience, be- 
gan to settle down into the calmness of despair. 

She gave up pacing the floor, and weeping and grieving over 
her captivity like some poor caged bird beating the bars of its 
prison with unavailing wings. She began to sit still in her chair 
for long hours daily, with her white hands folded on her lap and 
her dark eyes fixed on. vacancy — long hours in which the color 
and roundness fled from her face and form, leaving behind a 
startling pallor and delicacy that frightened Mrs. Robson, who 
thought that her charge had developed a new phase of her 
mania. 

“ Them stiU and cunning ones is always the most dangerous, 
so I’ve heard,” she confides to the tabby cat that is her only com- 
panion in the kitchen. “Ido wish she would ha’ give up that 
sharp little knife she carries in her bosom. And I do wish Mr. 
Noble would come and see her. I can’t think what keeps him 
away this long. He said he should come soon. Lucky he laid in 
a good store of provisions, or we might starve to death' in this 
lonely wilderness afore he comes.” 

She busies herself in preparing little dainties to tempt the ap- 
petite of her charge, but Lady Vera scarcely tastes the delicate 
morsels. 

“ Be you a-grievin’ for your husband, my poor dear?” Mrs. Rob- 
son asks her kindly one day. 

“ I have no husband,” Lady Vera answers, disdainfully, with a 
smouldering fire in her great, dark eyes. 

She accuses herself of no falsehood in uttering those words, 
for she never means to acknowledge Leslie Noble’s claim upon 
her, and she has mentally decided that if «he ever goes free again 
she will appeal to the strong arm of the law to sever the hated 
bonds that hold her. 

Alter that one flash of wrath she subsides into mournful 
apathy again. Two weeks more roll by into the irrevocable past. 
Lady Vera droops more and more, like some gently fading rose. 
Betsy Robson, frightened and alarmed, sees that her hold on life 
is slowly loosening day by day. 

The flowers she brings her from the tangled, neglected garden 
fall lightly from her grasp, as if her hands were too weak to 
hold them. She lies all day on her couch now, too weak or too 
weary to rise, and the snowy pillow day by day is drenched with 
her languid, hopeless tears. 

“It is too bad that Mr. Noble does not come,” Mrs. Robson 


180 


COUNTESS VERA 


mutters to Lerself. “His poor young wife is dying, I honestly 
think. She has gone so thin and white, and her big, black eyes 
frighten one with their uncanny look. She has fretted herself to 
death. It goes on to seven weeks now since he brought her here. 
1 wonder if aught has happened him? I do wislf could let him 
If now some way that she’s a-dying.” 

The last days of August have passed now. September comes 
in cool and blustery, inclining to storms. With every day Lady 
Vera sinks more and more, complaining of no pain or disease, 
only growing weaker and weaker, paler and thinner, while, as 
Mrs. Eobson says, her great, black eyes look unearthly in her 
death- white face. If Leslie Noble does not come soon his cap- 
tive will escape him through the open gates of death. 

“ It’s a-going to storm to-night. Tab,” remarks Mrs. Robson to 
her familiar, as she opens the kitchen door and peers out into the 
gathering darkness one chilly night; “ the moon looks pale and 
watery, and the clouds keeps scudding over it. There isn’t any 
stai’s to speak of, and the wind’s blustery and damp. It’s a-going 
to storm. You may blink and purr by the fire alone to-night, 
Tabby, for I must sit up with poor Mrs. Noble. It wouldn’t be 
right to leave the poor, crazy creetur alone, ill as ^e is, and 
seems that harmless a body could hardly believe that she stuck a 
knife into her own husband. Yes, I’ll set up with her to-night. 
Sometimes the spirits ride on storms to carry away the souls of 
them that’s a-dying, and mayhap they may come for that poor 
young thing’s to-night.” 

She closes the door with a shudder of superstitious terror in 
the face of the gathering storm, and betakes herself to the gloomy 
upper chamber where Countess Vera, still robed in the gray silk 
dress in which she had been brought from her home a captive, 
lies silently across the gloomy, crimson-hung bed, as white and 
still as if she were already dead. 

“You have eaten no supper, dearie,” Mrs. Robson remarks, 

f lancing at the untasted dainties upon the tea-tray that she had 
rought up two hours before. 

“ No,” the captive answers, with a weary sigh, and relapses 
into silence. 

“ There’s a storm coming. Do you hear the wind howl, and 
the rain beating on the windows?” remarks Mrs. Robson, to break 
the spell of the dreary, brooding silence. 

Lady Vera, turning her head listlessly a moment, listens aim- 
lessly to the wail of the autumn wind moaning like a voice in 
human pain around the ruined gables of the house. 

“ It is a wild night,” she answers, drearily. “ What time is it, 
Mrs. Robson?” 

“ It is nigh onto eleven o’clock,” the woman answers, consult- 
ing the broad-faced silver watch stuck in her belt; then, curious- 
ly: “ You’ve never asked me that question afore since here you’ve 
been, my dearie. Why do you do so now?” 

“When the hours of life are few, one is fain to count them,” 
Lady Vera answers, with subdued bitterness. 

And again there ensues a silence, filled up by the wild voice of 
the wind that has now increased to a gale. 


COVNTESS VERA, 


181 


The furious rush of the rain is distinctly audible; a flash of 
lightning quivers into the room in spite of the sliielding curtains. 

“ Mrs Kobson, I believe I am going to die. When your cruel 
master comes, he will find that his captive has escaped him, after 
all,” Lady Vera says, weakly, and with a faint triumph in her 
voice. 

Before Mrs. Eobson can reply, there comes a hasty, thundering 
rap on the hall door that brings her screaming to lier feet. It is 
thrice repeated before her frightened senses return. 

At that strange and unexpected sound, Lady Vera, as if en- 
dowed with new strength, starts up to a sitting posture in the 
bed. Instead of being startled by the noise, she seems to rejoice 
in it. Her eyes flash with new life. 

“Go, Mrs. Eobson,” she exclaims. “Do you not hear the 
knocking? Someone is come.” 

“ Who can it be, this dreadful night? Do you think it could be 
Mr. Noble?” exclaims the woman, timorously. 

“ God forbid!” exclaims Countess Vera, passionately. “ I pray 
that it may be some friend of mine who has come to bring me 
deliverance.” 

But Mrs. Eobson, by this, has begun to revive her scattered 
wits. 

“ Of course it’s my master, Mr. Noble. How foolish I was for 
a moment. I am main glad that he has come at last,” she de- 
clares, eagerly, and hastening to leave the room, though not for- 
getting to lock the door after her as usual. 

Countess Vera waits in an agony of suspense for five almost 
anguished minutes, then footsteps mount the stairs toward her 
chamber. Mrs. Eobson, opening the door, ushers in Leslie 
Noble. 

At the sight of that hated face, at the wild revulsion from 
ardent hope to absolute despair. Countess Vera utters a heart- 
wrung cry and falls weakly backward. 


CHAPTEE XLVI. 

Mrs. Eobson hastens forward, with a cry of dismay, to lift her 
mistress from the pillows, fearing to find her dead. But Lady V era 
has not even fainted. Her white, quivering, anguished face turns 
upon her enemy with scorn and defiance, struggling bravely with 
pitiful weakness and despair. 

“ You have almost come too late,” she cries, resting against 
Mrs. Eobson’s broad shoulder, and looking at him with a strange 
triumph in her hollow, gleaming eyes. “ Death has nearly been 
here before you. You have but come now to see him wrest your 
prey from your merciless grasp. You will have nothing but my 
poor, wasted body to gloat over. The soul that you have tor- 
tured out of its earthly tenement will soon be past your 
power.” 

He stares at her, growing ghastly pale and alarmed. Mrs. 
Eobson has told him that his wife is ill, that she is fretting her- 
self to death, but he is scarcely prepared for this. It looks like 
death, indeed, that marble pallor, those wide and brilliant eyes 


132 


COUNTESS VEUA. 


that gleam upon him so weirdly, triumphing over him, even in 
death. A horrible sense of loss and disappointment thrills 
through him. Is she dying, indeed, his beautiful Vera, his rich 
and honored countess, the glories of whose state he has meant to 
share? 

“ Vera, my darling, you must not die,” he exclaims, going for- 
ward and holding out his arms to her entreatingly. “Live for 
me, my dearest wife. I love j^ou more than life! Give yourself 
to me, Vera; let me win your heart, and I swear I will make you 
happy.” 

She waves him away with a gesture of supreme loathing. In 
their anger and excitement no one is aware that the door has 
creaked softly on its hinges, that it is pushed slightly ajar now, 
and that two faces, lurid with jealous rage and deadly anger, are 
peering cautiously around it. 

“ I love you, Vera,” he repeats, undaunted by her proud scorn, 
sure that he must win at last. “I love you, Vera, and I have 
never loved but you. Thinking you dead, I was lured into that 
marriage with Ivy Cleveland. She turned out to be a termagant, 
who only cared for my money, and I hated her long before that 
blissful night when you, so grand and beautiful that I already 
adored you, not knowing who you were, boldly claimed me as 
your husband. You must forgive that ill-starred marriage with 
your cousin, my precious Vera. She and her base mother made 
me repent it every hour of my life. I suffered enough through 
them, Vera, so you ought to be kind to me.” 

Strange that they do not hear the sibilant whisper of threaten- 
ing hate that hisses through the room! But they are absorbed in 
their own passions, and the storm now raging at the hight of its 
fury has many strange sounds of its own as it surges around the 
ivy-mantled room. 

Now and then a sheet of vivid lightning illuminates the cur- 
tained windows, and a peal of terrible thunder shakes the old 
mansion from garret to cellar. But only Mrs. Robson has any 
ear or any thought for the fury of the storm. 

“Kind to you,” Lady Vera repeats, in her faint, but cutting 
voice, gazing at her cringing suppliant. “ Were you kind to me 
in my sore distress and misery when my mother lay dead in her 
grave, and I had no one to turn to but you in my bitter desola- 
tion and despair? Were you kind and loving to your friendless 
bride then, in her poverty and woe? No! and it is not Vera 
Campbell you seek to win now. It is Lady Fairvale, of Fairvale, 
countess in her own right, with thirty thousand pounds a year. 
You see, I understand the value of your vapid protestations of 
love and repentance.” 

“ You mistake me. Lady Vera, in attributing mercenary mo- 
tives to me,” he answers, with pretended sadness and grief. “ I 
love you for yourself alone. I am very rich still, although not 
so wealthy as you are. I am not yet too poor to woo you as a 
royal lover. See, my darling, I bring you jewels fine enough for 
a queen — jewels that even your grandeur need not disdain; dia- 
monds bright as your eyes, pearls as fair as your milk-white 
skin,” 


COUNTESS VEBA. 


133 


He has drawn two jewel caskets from his breast, and unlocks 
them before her wondering eyes. The diamonds flash in the 
light, seeming to All the gloomy room with sunshine, the large, 
pale pearls shine with the lustrous whiteness of the moon’s chill 
rays. 

His eyes shine as he looks into her face to note the effect. 
Surely such an offering as this must win her back even from the 
portals of death to be his own. These must win her love for him, 
surely. No fair woman ever turned her back on the donor of 
such sparkling, flashing, burning diamonds, such moon-white, 
gleamiug pearls. 

But as he gazes triumphantly into her eyes, her lips curl, she 
recoils in scorn and aversion. 

“ I spurn both you and your offerings,” sh#^ answers, quickly. 
“ They are poor Ivy Cleveland’s diamonds and pearls. Oh, how 
could you be so mean and vile as to rob that poor girl of her 
jewels now, when already bereft of the jewel of honor?” 

“ They are not Ivy’s jewels,” he answers. “ I bought them for 
you to-day in London. Do you think I would offer you aught 
that had belonged to that woman who had wronged you?” 

‘‘Liar I Coward I Robber I” cries a voice of raging hate and 
jealousy, and like a sudden vision, Ivy Cleveland appears among 
them, her golden tresses flying in disorder, her face livid with 

E assion, her blue eyes blazing with wrath, in her clenched, white 
and, a tiny, gleaming pistol, like a pretty toy. 

“Liarl Cowardl Robber! I will have your life for my 
wrongs,” she shrieks, and the gleaming pistol covers his heart, 
there is a terrible report, a flash of thick smoke, and with a cry 
of horror, Leslie Noble leaps into the air and falls backward — 
dead! 

“ He is dead, but I have my jewels again!” the murderess cries, 
with maniacal triumph, gathering the fallen jewels to her breast 
and exulting wildly over them. 

At the loud report of the pistol, and Ivy’s frenzied cry, Mrs. 
Cleveland rushes into the room and kneels by the side of the 
prostrate man, whose life-blood has gushed out in a crimson tide 
upon the faded carpet. She puts her hand over his heart and 
bends her ear to his lips. But in a moment she lifts her head and 
regards her daughter with a blank stare of terror. 

“Oh, Ivy, Ivy, you have killed your husband!” she exclaims, 
in a frightened voice. 

But Ivy, sitting on the floor like a otild, running a diamond 
necklace lovingly through her fingers, like a stream of light, 
only glances up carelessly at the dead body on the floor, whose 
life-blood has crept slowly along the carpet, until it has crimson- 
ed the hem of her dress. She laughs aloud, a cliill, blood-curd- 
ling laugh. 

“ He deserved death,” she answers, in a strange, unnatural 
voice. “ He stole my pretty jewels from me — my diamonds and 
my pearls, ha, ha! lam the Queen of England, did you not know 
that? I beheaded my false subject because he stole the crown 
jewels. There is a ball to-night. I am engaged to dance with 
the President of the United States. He is coming for that pur- 


m 


C0UNTE88 VERA. 


pose. Ha, lia! will it not be a fine sight?” and springing to her 
feet she began to dance wildly around the room, her precious 
jewels clasped in her arms like a babe to her mother’s breast, 
while she sang in terrible, maniacal glee: 

“ The king is dead, long live the king!” 

Again there crept to the door two watchers who peered in all 
unheeded by those within the room, who watched with straining, 
horrified gaze the wild gyrations of the maddened Ivy, whose 
small figure continued to spin aimlessly around the floor to the 
accompaniment of gay, lilting tunes sung in a high-pitched, tune- 
less voice, that was terrible to hear. 

“ The poor lady is raving crazy I” at last exclaimed Mrs. Rob- 
son, finding voice for the first time since she had ushered Mr. 
Noble into the room. The sudden and unexpected appearance of 
two strange women on the scene, and the murder of her master 
had struck her dumb with terror, but all the wliile she had con- 
tinued to uphold the exhausted frame of Lady Vera in her strong, 
protecting arms. 

Yes, she is mad,” Lady Vera answers, in a low, sad, pitying 
tone. 

“ Who says that I am mad?” demands Ivy, sinking down upon 
the floor, wearied by her wild performance. “ I deny it 1 I am 
the Shah of Persia’s bride, and these jewels are my dowry from 
my royal bridegroom !” 

Mrs. Cleveland, turning her eyes for the first time from the face 
of her stricken daughter, rests them upon Countess Vera’s wasted, 
death-white features. 

“ See what your cursed arts have done,” she cried out, harshly. 
“ It is all your work I I am glad that you are dying, Vera Camp- 
bell I I have hated you from the hour of your birth! You were 
born to be my stumbling-block, and to work out my destruction!” 

‘ I was born to be the avenger of my parents’ wrongs,” Lady 
Vera answers, proudly. “ And though it kill me, I have kept my 
oath of vengeance I” 

The wind moaned ominously around the creaking gables, the 
thunder mutters hoarsely, the blue flame of the lightning casts 
its ghastly glare into the room. No one heeds the tierce war of 
the elements in the fiercer war of human passions raging within 
the gloomy chamber. 

“Yes, you have kept your oath, curse you, curse you!” Marcia 
Cleveland answers, venomously, p “You have dragged me and 
mine down to poverty,^o shame, to madness! But live, Vera 
Campbell, live yet a little longer, and you shall see your weapons 
turned against yourself. You will be thrust from your splendid 
home and high estate, branded, disgraced, while I shall reign in 
your stead! But the sweetness will be taken from my revenge. 
You have driven my daughter, the light of my eyes and heart, 
mad, ma( I It is a wound that naught on earth can heal. Oh, 
curse you, curse you! May you never know one hour of peace! 
May you be racked by every ill that flesh is heir to! May- 
God’s ” 

The terrible curse she is invoking stays forever on her lips! A 
blinding flash of forked and vivid blue lightning shatters the 


COUNTESS VERA, 


185 


■window panes, rends the curtains, and darts into the room like a 
living sword. A peal of awful thunder seems to rend the earth 
in twain, and the old liouse rocks for a moment like an infant’s 
cradle. Then the rain rushes wildly again, and the thunder sub- 
sides into ominous mutterings and long, rolling sounds of terri- 
ble wrath, and Marcia Cleveland lies ijrone upon the floor, her 
distorted face uptumed to the light, a single blue spot on her 
temple telling its awful story to the shocked beholders — slain by 
the liahtning! 

“ Oh, my poor, young mistress, you are dead, too! We shall 
all be killed r Mrs. Robson exclaims in an access of mortal ter- 
ror, for Lady Vera, overcome by the horrors of that dreadful 
night has fallen back in a deathly swoon upon her pillow. 

At that cry of grief the two who have Angered at the door 
spring into the room. Mr. Sharpe, the detective, and Colonel 
I^ckhart. 

It is Mr. Sharpe who recoils from the sight of the two dead 
bodies, and the still sadder sight of the living madwoman, croon- 
ing her senseless songs, and counting her jewels in a distant 
corner. 

Colonel Lockhart has no eyes for these. At one boimd he is 
by the bedside where the missing countess lies cold and white 
and still in aU her beauty. 

“Oh, Vera, my love, my darling, have I found you only for 
this?” he groans, taking the slight form into his arms, pressing 
it to his aching heart, and lavishing passionate kisses on the cold, 
white lips. 

But as if his love had power to call her back to life, Lady Vera 
sighs faintly and opens her eyes, heavily at flrst, then with a 
flash of wondrous brightness in them as she recognizes her 
lover. 

“Oh, Philip, is it you?” she sighs, with ineffable content, 
nestling closer in his strong, loving clasp. “I thought I was 
dying, but your voice has c^led me back from the world of 
shadows. I cannot die, now that you have come for me. Am 
I safe at last, Phihp ?” 

“ You are safe at last, my darling,” he answers, solemnly, and 
glancing behind him with a slight shudder. “ A terrible retri- 
bution has overtaken your enemies.” 

“I know,” she answers, shuddering. “Is it not fearful, 
Phihp? But oh, tell me,” she continues, pleadingly, “ami re- 
6ix)nsible for the terrible ending of these selfish lives ?” 

“ No, Vera. They were wicked people whose sins wrought out 
their own retribution. No blame can attach to you, darhng,” he 
answers, decisively. ' 

“ Do you really know this lady, sir?” inquires poor Betsy Rob- 
son, touching him timidly on the arm. 

“Yes, ” he answers, looking round at her. ‘ ‘ She is the Couii tess 
of Fairvale, my betrothed wife, whom Leshe Noble abducted 
tfrom her home.” 

“Oh, me, and I thought she was Mr. Noble’s crazy ^yife. He 
said so,” cries Mrs, Robson, dissolved in penitent tears. “ Oli, 


136 


COUNTESS VERA. 


my lady, can you ever forgive me for not listening to your true 
story?” 

“ Freely, my poor creature, since you were always kind to 
me,” Lady Vera answers, moved to greatest compassion by the 
woman’s humble penitence. 

Then, with something of a shudder, Lady Vera turns back to 
her lover. 

“ It seems a dreadful thing to do, but you must search Mr, 
Noble’s person,” she says. “He had the stolen memorandum- 
book.” 

“My lady, I have already taken the liberty of doing as you 
suggest,” Mr. Sharpe answers, respectfully, advancing with the 
gold-clasped book in his hand. 

She takes it from him with a subdued cry of joy. 

“ And now, Vera, when will you feel able to leave this dread- 
ful place ?” inquires Colonel Lockhart. 

“ To-morrow,” she answers, promptly. 

“ Then we will start for London in the morning. How glad 
Su' Harry and Nella will be,” he exclaims. “ And now, Sharpe, 
we will, with this good woman’s assistance, make some arrange- 
ment for removing Lady Vera from this scene of horror into 
another chamber.” 

“There’s only the kitchen,” Mrs. Robson said, dismayed at 
her lack of resources. “All the chambers but this are leaky and 
damp. But the kitchen where I cook and sleep is warm and 
dry.” 

“ The kitchen will suit me excellently well ; anywhere but 
this,” Lady Vera answers, shuddering. “You must bring poor 
Ivy, too,” she adds, with a compassionate glance at the poor, 
insane creature. 

The maniac went willingly mough, satisfied to go anywhere 
so long as she was not partied from her beloved jewels, and the 
warm, clean kitchen was felt by all to be a safe haven of refuge 
from the inclement night and the horror-haunted chamber up- 
stairs. 

The remainder of the night was spent in a wakeful vigil. The 
next morning the gentlemen made hurried preparations for the 
inquest that was necessary to be held over the dead. 

It was found that Mrs. Cleveland had come to her death by a 
stroke of lightning, and that Leslie Noble had been murdered by 
Ivy Cleveland. 

But human vengeance was powerless to touch poor Ivy. The 
hand of God had already smitten her. A lunatic asylum received 
her for the remainder of her poor, wrecked life. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

Marcia Clevela.nd and Leslie Noble were buried in a quiet, 
country graveyard. By Lady Vera’s care a plain gray stone was 
raised above their graves recording their names and nationality, 
with a brief line commending them to the mercv of Heaven. 

The remnant of Leslie Noble’s once princely fortune reverted 


G0VNTES8 VERA. 


137 


to the Countess of Fairvale. She devoted it to the maintenance 
of^or Ivy Cleveland in the best insane asylum in England. 

^e hoped that with time and care her reason might return to 
her, but the poor creature remained a confirmed maniac to the 
end of her long life, never very dangerous or troublesome, but 
always fancying herself some royal personage, and always plan- 
ning new costumes for some imaginary ball. 

The splendid jewels, for whose sake she had dyed her hands in 
human blood, were kindly spared to he*r as playthings. They 
constituted all the happiness of her life. 

For Countess Vera, after that night of storm and death and 
merciful rescue, there dawned a brighter day. 

Only one cloud dimmed the horizon of her life-sky. It was 
Raleigh Gilmore’s suit at law. Even her best friends, those who 
believed in her the most loyally, secretly feared that it would go 
against her. 

When Lady Vera met Sir Harry Clive again she went to him 
with a smile, the open memorandum-book in her white hand. 

“ You see,” she said to him with that triumphant I-told-you- 
80 smile, which women are wont to wear on such occasions, “ it 
was no dream, Sir Harry. Here are the precious lines in my fa- 
ther’s writing, word for word, as I repeated them to you that 
day.” 

Sir HaiTy humbly begged her pardon for his doubts. 

“ You wrote to this Joel McPherson, did you not?” he asks, 
anxiously. 

“ Yes,” she answers. “ Has no word come from him yet?” 

“ No,” Sir Harry replies, “ not a word. Perhaps he is dead; 
perh^s he has gone away.” 

“ We must send someone over to America to look for him,” 
Lady Vera replies decisively. 

“ I think you are right. It is the best thing that can be done,” 
he agrees. 

Her lawyer is of the same opinion. They decide to send Mr. 
Sharpe, the efficient detective, to Washington to find the missing 
sexton of Glenwood. 

When Lady Vera has repeated to them Leslie Noble’s asser- 
tion, that he had written to a friend to keep the sexton out of 
the way, they strongly suspect that McPherson has been made 
away with. _ , . 

Mr. Sharpe is sent on his errand to America, Lpdy Vera s keen- 
witted lawyer staves off the impending trial from day to day pend- 
ing the arrival of her important witness, and all wait in sus- 
pense for news from the detective. 

Meanwhile, Raleigh Gilmore’s case has weakened daily. 

The witnesses upon whom he had relied so confidently, Mrs. 
Cleveland and her daughter, and possibly Leslie Noble, were all 
unavailable, two being dead, one the incurable inmate of a mad- 
house. . . , . -r . -IT 

The tide of fortune was setting against him. Lady Veras 
friends began to desert his banner. 

Meanwhile, Lady Vera’s lover and friends rejoiced m her re- 
turning health and strength. She had been so frail and delicate 


138 


COUNTESS VEBA, 


when Colonel Lockhart brought her back to them that they were 
shocked and frightened. They thought she would die. Lady 
Clive and the faithful maid, Elsie, wept floods of tears over her. 
Little Hal took a great deal of blame to himself for Lady Vera’s 
abduction. 

“Vera, I should never have given you that dreadful old 
woman’s letter if I had known what it was about,” he reiterates 
in her patient ear many times. 

“I know that, dear,” she always answers, kindly. “ No one 
blames you, Hal, for my misfortune. It was my own willful- 
ness that led me into danger. Had I listened to my faithful 
Elsie, I should not have gone.” 

But their fears for her health are soon dissipated. Happiness, 
love and hope, are potent restorers. The light returns to Lady 
Vera’s eyes, the roundness to her face and form, the color to her 
cheeks, and the slight shade of thought and sadness around her 
lovely lips does not detract from her beauty. 

No one can tell with what happiness Colonel Lockhart basks 
in the sunlight of her presence, though when she runs her white 
fingers through his hair, she wonders at the silver threads that 
shine in the brown, clustering curls. 

“They were not there three months ago,” she says to him 
thoughtfully. “ Are you growing old so fast, Philip?” 

“ I have grown old in sorrow since we parted, dear,” he an- 
swers, searching her face, gravely. “Shall you love me less for 
my gray hairs, dearest?” 

“ No, "for they were whitened by your grief forme,” she an- 
swers, pressing her sweet, shy lips on those silvery tokens of his 
sorrow. 

And now Colonel Lockhart begs her to name an early day for 
their marriage. 

“We have had so many vicissitudes in our courtship, darling, 
that I can never feel sure of you until you are my wife. Let it be 
soon, dear,” he pleads. 

But Lady Vera, blushing her sweetest, answers: 

“Not until after the trial is decided, Philip.” 

But this is ^ust what the handsome soldier is unwilling to do. 

“Why wait until after that?” he asks. “Do you mean to 
throw me over if — all does not go to please you?” 

The dark eyes look at him gravely. 

“If it goes against me, Philip, would you be williDg to wed 
one whom the world will brand as an impostor?” she asks him, 
slowly. 

“ Yes, for I would know the charge was untrae. Oli, Vera, let 
me make you my own now, while the issue is still in doubt, that 
you may know that I loved you for yourself alone.” 

“As if I did not ki¥)w that already,” she answers, looking at 
him with sweet rei)roach. 

“That the world may know it, too, tlien,” he urges. 

He is most anxious that the marriage shall take place before 
the trial. Then if, as he fears, the trial should go against her, 
she will be safe in her position as his wife, and none will dare as- 


COUNTED 8 VERA. “ 139 

Bail her. But he cannot explain this without wounding her sen- 
sitive feelings, so he is forced to admit her denial. 

“Not until after the trial, Philip.” 

“ And then?” he asks, eagerly, 

“As soon as you please,” she answers, with tender blushes 
glowing all over her beautiful face, and then she laughs musi- 
cally. 

“ We are setting the day for our marriage, and we are not even 
engaged,” she laughs, in answ^er to his aggrieved look. 

“ We are!” he insists. 

We are not,” she declares. “We dissolved our engagement 
several months ago, and since I became free you have not asked 
me to renew it.” 

The tender mischief in the lovely, laughing, dark eyes, almost 
disconcerts the handsome soldier. 

“Oh, Vera, I thought of course you knew that I meant it,” he 
says, rather incoherently. “ We are engaged, and we are going 
to be married, aren’t we, dear?” 

“ If you ask me,” she says, with demure mirth, out of the hap- 
piness of her heart. 

“I ask you now,” he answers, laughing too. “Is it yes, 
Vera?” 

She murmurs assent with a pretty assumption of coquetry, 
and bends her head for her second betrothal kiss, delighting her 
lover by the child-like gaiety that shows how her spirit is grad- 
ually throwing off the depressing influence of grief that has so 
long surrounded her. 

“ Then, Vera, I may write to my father. General Lockhart, and 
ask him to come over to the wedding?” he says, presently. 

“ What! and the trousseau not ready yet?” she laughs. 

“Oh, my darling, you will write and order it at once, will you 
not?” he exclaims. 

“ I have already ordered it. Colonel Lockhart,” she repKes, de- 
murely. 

“What! before you were engaged?” he retorts, feeling it his 
turn to tease now. 

“I had the prospect of a proposal, sir,” she answers, with 
charming frankness. 

“ Then I shall write to my father to come over. I would not 
miss having him see my lovely bride, and I intend that the wed- 
ding shall come off as soon as the trousseau is ready,” declares the 
happy lover. 

Lady Vera does not say him nay. She is very happy in the 
prospect of a union with her faithful lover. The days glide past 
like a dream of pleasure, quietly, because as yet she denies her- 
self to callers, but happily, because surrounded by her dearest 
friends and her adoring lover. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

And one day the last sweet rose leaf is added to the brimming 
cup of Lady Vera’s new happmess, which even the thought of 
Raleigh Gilmore’s fell design could not wholly overshadow. 


140 


G0UNTEB8 YEBA, 


Sir Harry Clive had sent her an urgent request to come into 
the library to meet a visitor, and only staying a moment to ar- 
range her disordered hair, for she had been in the nursery play- 
ing with Lady Nella’s children, she obeys him. 

Sir Harry takes her hand and draws her forward to the man, 
neatly clothed in black, who has risen from his chair to meet her. 

“ I know your face,” she cries, instantly. “I have seen you 
somewhere. It is — oh, can it be Mr. McPherson?” 

“It is Joel McPherson, Lady Vera, at your service,” he an- 
swers, in honest, hearty tones. “I am glad vou remembered 
me, my lady. I knew you again instantly although you look 
prettier and happier than you did that morning when your fath- 
er took you away from Glenwood.” 

“ Oh, then, you can tell me all about that dreadful night,” she 
cries, repressing the shudder that always steals over her at the 
thought of her living entombment. 

“Yes, my lady, that is why I came to England with Mr. 
Sharpe,” he answers, respectfully. “ I told your father that day 
that it was wrong to keep the story of your burial from you. He 
answered me that he meant to tell you all some day when you 
grew well and strong again.” 

“ Poor father! He was too tender-hearted to keep that prom- 
ise,” Lady Vera murmurs, dropping into a chair, and hiding 
her tearful face in her hands. 

“You wish to hear how you came to be rescued from your liv- 
ing grave, dear Lady Vera?” says the baronet, anxious to distract 
her mournful thoughts from her dead father. 

“ Yes, oh, yes,” she murmurs, lifting her head, and looking at 
Mr. McPherson’s grave, kindly face. “ You will tell me, will 
you not, sir?” 

“You see it was this way, my lady. On the evening of the day 
that you were buried, your father went to Mrs. Cleveland’s to 
seek his wife and child. She told him cruelly to seek you both 
in your graves at Glenwood. He could scarcely believe it. It 
seemed too horrible to believe, and in the horror with which his 
enemy’s words inspired him, he fell doum like one dead at her 
feet. He came to himself lying out on the pavement with the 
wild rain and wind beating into his uncovered face. She had 
cast him out into the street to die like the veriest wretch, un- 
friended and alone.” 

“Heartless!” Sir Harry Clive utters, indignantly, while Lady 
Vera’s choking sobs attest the strain upon his feehngs. 

“Then he came to me,” continued Joel McPherson, his kind 
eyes moist at the remembrance of the earl’s despair. “I could 
only confirm Mrs. Cleveland’s story. Both his wife and child 
were dead. Then a longing came over him to look at the face of 
the dead wife. He had wronged her living, he said, and he could 
not rest until he saw her face again. He offered me gold to open 
the gi-ave, but it was not the bribe, it was the misery on his mce 
that made me yield to his wish.” 

He pauses, drawing a long breath, and wiping the moisture 
from his eyes, waits for Lady Vera to grow cahner. The sound 
of her suppressed sobbing fills the room. 


C0UNTE88 VERA. 


141 


Sir Harr j touches her arm gently. 

“ This is too much for you,” he says kindly. “ Shall we defer 
the story’s conclusion until you are better, my dear? ” 

“ No, I will be calm,” she answers, repressing with an effort 
the sobs that rise at these reminiscences of the past ; “ I will not 
disturb you again. Go on with your story, Mr. McPherson.” 

“ There is little more to tell, my lady,” he returns. “ I yielded 
to the earl’s wish because, after hearing all his strange story, I 
had not the heart to refuse. But in the haste with which the 
deed was done, and in the pitch-black, rainy night, I made a 
mistake. Judge of my surprise when on wrenching off the hd 
of the coffin, and fiasMng the light of the lantern on the face 
within, I found that I had disinterred the daughter instead of 
the mother. It was the happiest mistake of my life, for in a 
few minutes we found that she was not dead, but simply wrap- 
ped in a deep, narcotic sleep,” he adds, with emotion. 

In a moment he continues: 

“Your father. Lady Vera, did not discover the mistake until I 
explained it to him. He had not seen your mother for sixteen 
years, and as you greatly resembled her, he fancied that she had 
retained the fairness of girlhood through all those years, whereas, 
in reality, she was gray-haired and sadly aged by sorrow. • I ex- 
plained all this to him, and then we took you to my cottage near 
by, and when you revived, he quieted you by some plausible 
story that you had been asleep, fearing to shock you too much 
by the story of your burial while yet alive. He still clung to his 
fancy of seeing "his dead wife’s face, so I went back and opened 
that grave too, but,” with a shudder, “it was too late. Death 
had marred her too sadly. I filled up both graves again, and by 
your father’s wish, my lady, no one ever knew that one was 
empty. I questioned the wisdom of such a course, but the earl 
was peremptory, and the little mound remained, while very soon 
after Mr. Noble erected the monument that told every one that 
his wife, Vera, was buried beneath, while the truth was that you 
had gone abroad with your father. The earl, in his joy over 
your restoration to life, settled a generous httle fortune upon me, 
which has made me independent ever since. He was a good 
man and true, and I am sorry that he is dead,” adds Mr. McPher- 
son, brushing liis hand across his eyes. 

“And my letter to you — did you ever receive it?” questions 
Lady Vera. 

“Yes, my lady, promptly. And I was making my arrange- 
ments to come right over to England and help you, when I was 
basely kidnapped by some unknown party and held in durance 
over two months, when, by good luck and constant watchfulness, 
I effected my escape. I went straight back to Glenwood, and 
there I found your man, Mr. Sharpe, interrogating the sexton, 
who now occupied my cottage. He was delighted to find in me 
the man he was looking for, and I came straight over to England 
with him. But if you had not sent him after me. Lady Vera, I 
should have come anyhow as soon as I escaped from my jailers.” 

Lady Vera, rising impulsively, goes over to press the hand of 
this kind, true friend in her two soft, white ones. 


142 


COUNTESS VEUA. 


“God bless you,” she murmurs; “lean never thank you 
enougli. And will you swear to all this before a court of jus- 
tice ?” 

“ Certainly, my Lady Fairvale. That is what I came to Eng- 
land for,” Mr. McPherson answers, heartily. 

*-»-»***** 

When Raleigh Gilmore’s lawyer heard of this new witness in 
Lady Vera’s favor, he declared that his client had no case at all 
against the defendant. He said it would be useless to bring it 
into court. They would only be routed i^ominiously, for Lady 
Fairvale’s identity was so perfectly established by the note in her 
father’s memorandum-book, and by the sexton of Glenwood’s 
testimony, that there was really nothing to be said against it. 
Besides, Mr. Gilmore’s witnesses were all dead, or worse. So the 
base conspiracy fell through harmlessly, and there was no trial 
at all, though Countess Vera’s friends were rather eager for it 
now, foreseeing that victory must perch upon her banner. 
Raleigh Gilmore retired to his country estate again, soured by 
his defeat and disgrace, and heartily wisliing that he had never 
been beguiled from its quiet shades by the sj^ecious representa- 
tions of the Widow Cleveland. There was one drop of sweetness 
in the bitter cup of humiliation pressed to the old bachelor’s lips. 
Marcia Cleveland was dead, and he would not have to marry her 
as he had promised. 

Countess Vera felt no animosity toward the man who had tried 
to oust her from her rights. She wrote him a kind and pitying 
letter, in which she offered him generous pecuniary assistance if 
he required it, and freely forgave liim the part he had acted. 

To this sweet and womanly offer, Mr. Gilmore replied gruffly 
and rudely that he neither asked nor needed aid from the usurper 
of his rights, and had no desire for her forgiveness. 

After this, Lady Vera tacitly dropped him, and he figured no 
more in the pages of her romantic life-history, which thereafter 
flowed serenely in the unclouded sunshine of happiness. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

The wedding— Colonel Lockhart’s and Countess Vera’s— when 
it came off, was a very grand affair indeed. General Lockhart, 
than whom there was no more gallant or distinguished an officer 
in America, came over to England to attend the nuptials, and by 
his handsome appearance and widespread fame, added prestige 
to the grand occasion. 

Sir Harry Clive gave away the bride, and little Dot, his daugh- 
ter, was one of the bride’s-maids. Lady Clive declared that she 
had never been so happy in her life as in the hour when Lady 
Vera was married to her darling brother. 

People said afterward that they were the handsomest couple 
ever married in-London. Colonel Lockhart was so grandly hand- 
some. Lady Vera so dazzlingly fair. Her bridal dress was a mar- 
vel ol richness and beauty. 

Her trousseau was all that could be desired by a woman’s heart. 


COUNTESS VENA. 


143 


The bridal gifts were numerous and costly. The countess was so 
much admired, and her sad and romantic story had excited such 
interest and sympathy that her friends vied with each other in 
the beauty and richness of their gifts, as if desirous to add in 
every way to the pleasure of her bridal-hour. 

Colonel Lockhart scarcely knew what to give liis brid#, her 
gifts were so varied and so costly, but he studied out a design of 
his own, and had the jeweler reproduce it. It was a beautiful 
locket, containing his o^^^l picture. The setting on the carved 
back was a perfect crimson rose, formed of magnificent rubieso 

“ In memory of the rose whose message failed that night when 
I went back to America,” he said, with a smile, as he placed it in 
her hand. 

She sighed and smiled as memory brought back that night 
with its hopes, and fears, and crowning failure. She remembered 
the song and the rose, and how both had failed to carry their 
story to his wounded heart. Then she opened the locket, and 
forgot all else in the sight of her husband’s handsome, happy face 
beaming out upon her. 

“ Oh, how I thank you, Philip,” she cried, rapturously. “ It is 
beautiful.” 

“ The picture or the locket?” he asks, laughing, yet inwardly 
deeply moved. 

“Both,” she answers, pressing the crimson flower of her lips 
upon the pictured face. “ This shall always be my dearest jewel!” 
******** 

Countess Vera’s bridal tour was to the United States. Her 
husband was thoroughly patriotic, and desired to rid her mind 
of the prejudice she had taken against her native land, owing to 
the trials of her early youth. 

They traveled leisurely and pleasantly all over their own native 
country, mixed in society, and viewed everything dispassionate- 
ly, until the lovely countess owned that she had erred in disliking 
America and Americans. 

“ Yet I have nobly atoned for my early mistake by taking an 
American for my husband,” she always* declares, when Colonel 
Lockliart twits her with her early aversion. 

One day they found themselves in the beautiful city of Wash- 
ington, and Lady Vera expressed a wish to visit her mother’s 
grave. 

It was a lovely day in spring, sweet with the breath of early 
flowers, when they strolled through the whispering shades of 
Glenwood to seek the quiet grave where Mrs. Campbell’s broken 
heart had found rest and peace. The turf was springing green 
and freshly above the low mound, and fragrant violets and 
tender daisies starred the ground. On the marble cross at the 
head of the grave was carved her name and age, and one passion- 
ate plaint from her husband’s bleeding and remorseful heart: 

“ Oh, God, since she could die, 

The world’s a grave, and hoi)e lies buried here.” 

“Poor niothei*, poor father!” Lady Vera weeps, her tears fall- 


144 G0UNTE88 VEBA. 

ing on the green grass for the sad fate of those two who had 
given her l&e. 

When she lifts her head again she sees her husband standing 
by the opposite mound beneath the shadow of a tall, pretentious 
monument. 

“ Do you care to see this, my darling?” he asks her, very gently. 

Silently she glides to his side, and circled by his fond, protect- 
ing arm, reads the brief inscription, not without something of a 
shudder creeping over her sensitive frame. 

“VERA, 

“WIFE OF LESLIE NOBLE. 

“Aged Seventeen.” 

“ It is such a falsehood I cannot bear to see it there,” she says. 
“You must have the letters removed, Philip. I cannot bear to 
know that my name is carved upon a tombstone while I am so 
full of young, happy, bounding hfe.” 

“I think you are right, my darling,” Colonel Lockhart an- 
swers, and he takes care to carry out her wish. The lying 
inscription is carefully erased from'the white marble tablet. 

“ When I am really dead, Philip, I shall want some kind and 
loving words carved on the marble above my head,” she says; “ I 
shall want the world to know that I was loved and missed. How 
cold, how brief, how unloving was that inscription.” 

Then glancing into his face she sees it working with some deep 
emotion. 

“Let us come away from this spot, Vera,” he says, nervously. 
“I tremble to think that once you lay buried here beneath this 
sprin^ng turf. What if I had missed you from my life forever?” 

“ You would have married Miss Montgomery, doubtless,” she 
answers, with a spice of mischief. 

“Never,” he answers, most emphatically, as he leads her aw'ay. 
“You were my fate, darling. If I had never met you I should 
never have loved nor married.” 

They remain in America several years. Lady Vera shrinks 
from returning home while the memory of her strange, romantic 
story is yet fresh in the public mind. But after awhile circum- 
stances induce them to make England their home. 

Colonel Lockhart having already left the army to please his 
wife, nothing remains but to set their faces toward England and 
Fairvale. 

There is no fear that Raleigh Gilmore will ever inherit Fair- 
vale now, for Countess Vera has two lovely children — a dark- 
eyed boy and blue-eyed girl — who are as beautiful, as healthy 
and brilliant as their parents’ hearts could wish. Countess Vera 
calls them Lawrence and Edith, in loving memory of the dead. 

[the end.] 



COUJSTESS VEMA, 


145 


THE MYSTERIOUS BEAUTY. 


Of course I was “ altogefi^ler out of sorts,” and ‘‘worry had 
told upon me.” There was no need of young. Hunter, fresh from 
English and foreign hospitals, with all the latest scientific dis- 
coveries and the longest scientific terms at his fingers’ ends, to 
inform me of that little fact; my own common sense could arrive 
at that conclusion unassisted. What did puzzle me about it was 
the connection between mind and matter; why a mental anxiety 
resulted in a shooting pain, and why the annoyance I had lately 
undergone should have a tendency to develop bunions. Hunter 
laughed when I asked him the reason of this, and then he said: 

‘ If I ' were you, Mr. Slocombe, I would just run up to town 
one day and see Sir Percival Pylle; he is quite at the top of the 
profession for a case like yours, and I should feel more satisfied 
in treating you afterward when you have had his opinion.” 

The young man spoke modestly enough — more so than these 
overtaught young gentlemen of the present day are in the habit 
of doing — but there was a laugh in his eye all the time, and I 
have since led him to confess that he did not believe he should 
ever get me to submit to his orders unless some medical Colos- 
sus had first laid down the law in the same direction. 

It was a great loss to this neighborhood wlien good old Dr. 
Manners died. We all knew and believed in him; he had vacci- 
nated the last three generations, helped them through croup and 
measles, had lanced their babies’ gums, and attended the funerals 
of at least half the parish twice over; and now that he was gone 
we none of us had the least idea how to be ill without him. 
Young Mr. Hunter had been with Dr. Manners for a short time 
before his death; but what are a few months’ experience com- 
pared to that of the man who has known and physicked you 
from the day of your birth? So there was a little division 
of feeling about Hunter; the young folks, who could not be ex- 
pected to have old heads on their shoulders, extolled his clever- 
ness and skill; but we elders did not commit ourselves so unre- 
servedly, and there was a tacit agreement amongst us that in 
case we had to call in the new doctor, it would be well not to 
trust him too fully as to our ailments, confiding to his ear such 
symptoms merely as we thought him capable of understanding, 
and reserving to ourselves our own opinions, while we took those 
he expressed cum grano. 

He was quite right, though, in saying that woiTy had told 
upon me. Why, worry enough to tell upon a large family 
had thought proper to concentrate itself upon me, Adolphus 
Slocombe, a quiet single gentleman no longer walking on 


14.6 


COUNTESS VERA. 


what is called the sunny side of fifty. First, there was that 
law-suit — the one, I mean, which had been dragging on for 
years about Crof ton’s Spinney; and when the case was settled 
this spring in my favor, the" expenses of litigation so nearly 
balanced the value of the property, that the modest sum 
of £7 IO 5 . del. was all the gain resulting from the trouble 
and anxiety of the law-suit. The wind was very much in the 
east, too, this spring. I remember there was a biting frost the 
very day my lawyer’s bill came in — a frost that cut off all the 
young wall-fruit which a previous mild fortnight had coaxed 
into setting. I am partial to wall-fruit, particularly so to what 
is grown in my own garden; in fact, the garden is a hobby of 
mine, and those long, red-brick walls, on which the sun shines 
soft and warm when other aspects are in chilly shadow, had been 
a sheet of blossoms pink and promising, and such as not one 
of all my neighbors could exhibit, only the day before. 

People say calamities are apt to hunt in couples; mine came 
just then in a regular pack. I was trying to be quiet for a while 
after dinner, and, sitting in a cozy chair % the dining-room fire, 
had just thrown a handkerchief across my forehead, the better 
to think over my troubles undisturbed by the lights in the room, 
when a knock sounded on the door, and my housekeeper pre- 
sented herself with: 

“If you please, sir, could I speak to you?” 

Her voice sounded rather odd, and she had a nervous way with 
her liands so altogether unlike herself that I knew at once some 
fresh catastrophe had happened, and she was come to “ break it ” 
to me. I had told her to shut the door behind her, which slie did; 
and then, as she stood trembling and hesitating just inside the 
room, I added, to reassure her: 

“ Well, Mrs. Parker, what is it? I am afraid the cows must be 
ill, or one of the maids has given you trouble, and you want me 
to give her warning.” 

“ If you please, sir,” replied Parker, as though that really was 
just what she wanted. 

“But which is it?” I asked, “ the cows or the housemaids?” 

“ Please sir,” began Mrs. Parker again; then she paused for a 
full minute, and finally burst out quite suddenly, “ It^s me, sir, 
please.” 

“You, Parker? I don’t understand,” which was certainly not 
surprising, considering the want of clearness in her remarks. 
However, now she had begun to speak, she seemed to feel more 
equal to the occasion, and presently Avent on: 

“Please, sir, it’s me, sir; you said ‘to give warning,’ you 
know, su’.” 

“Oh, indeed!” returned I, equally surprised and annoyed at 
this piece of self-assertion on the part of my old servant. “ So 
you think, Mrs. Parker, that it is your place rather than mine to 
give warning to my domestics? I cannot say that I agree with 
you. I give you leave to choose and select the maids for your- 
self, and when they disobey you and give trouble I am willing to 
part with them on your advice; but servants shall not enter upon 
or quit my service unless I engage them or dismiss them myself. 


COmTESS VERA, 


147 


You have lived with me a great many years, Parker; but I in- 
tend to be master in my own house, and there must be a limit 
to your powers.” 

I had worked myself up into quite an angry mood by this time; 
as to Parker, she incontinently fell a-sobbing in the very middle 
of my speech. 

She drew a little nearer when I paused, and, “Oh, Mr. Adol- 
phus,” says she, “ my dear, dear master, ’tisn’t nothing like as 
what you’re saying. I wouldn’t never go to ask for more power 
nor is my due here, and faithfully I’ve tried to do my duty to 
you these thirty years and more, but— but— but— there, sir, ’tis 
Sir Arthur Piynne’s coachman, sir— him that has the south lodge 
and lost his wife a year agone last Martinmas; and, if you please, 
sir, I’d be glad and sorry, too, indeed, sir. to leave you this day 
month.” 

The murder was out now, but what a preposterous notion! 

“My good woman, have you taken leave of your senses!” I 
asked. 

“Please, sir ” 

“ But I do not please at all, Parker. Wliy in the world should 
you want to be married? It is the most ridiculous thing I ever 
heard of. You are as comfortable as you can possibly be here; 
you have a good home, good food, servants under you, and, I 
hope and believe, a good master.” 

“Yes, sir,” sniffed through a pocket-handkerchief. 

“ Then,” I went on, warming with my subject, “ you have 
good wages, haven’t you? I’ll raise them, if you wish it.' And you 
have taken brevet rank, you know; wiiy, all the parish calls you 
Mrs. Parker, and I do not believe there is a living soul besides 
myself that recollects your proper style and title should be Sarah 
Parker, spinster. Don’t you see that you have everything to lose 
and nothing whatever to gain in marrying Sir Arthur Prynne’s 
coachman? Why, he has I don’t know how many children, and 
they will be the death of you, Parker; pla^e your very life out. 
Now, do make up your mind to be a sensible woman and stay 
where you are, and I will see that you shall never come to want 
when your working days are over.” 

Anybody would have thought that I had given her reasons 
enough, and good ones, too, against this marriage, but wilful 
woman will have her w^ay, and a most particularly obstinate and 
wilful woman Sarah Parker was in this matter. She wanted for 
nothing in my house, and she had loved me all my life, but Abel 
Driver’s sons were all out in the world; one daughter was in 
good service, and the others were married; and, in short, her 
fixed intention was to become the coachman’s wife and live in 
Sir Arthur’s south lodge, so I gave up the point at last, merely 
observing: 

“ Well, if you will, you must, and I shall say no more about the 
matter except to caution you that Driver’s lodge stands very 
near the lake, and I have seen a thick white mist rising scores 
of times in that part of the park. You are subject to rheuma- 
tism, and to my certain knowledge turned sixty; so I advise you 
to think how it will suit your bones to be running out to open 


148 COUNTESS 'VERA. 


and shut the gates at all hours, before you give Abel Driver his 
final answer.”. 

Parker was not much pleased at these remarks, meant in all 
kindly warning; perhaps she did not like any allusion to her 
age: anyhow, she went away at once, -and left me, rather shaken 
by the sudden news she had brought me, to ponder over the 
complications and inconveniences wMch result from indiscrim- 
inate matrimony, and to wonder what was to become of me with- 
out my worthy housekeeper. 

The next day I sent for Hunter, and two days afterward I 
went to London and saw Sir Percival Pylle. There was not much 
agreeable sauvity in the great man’s manner, and he listened to 
the account of my symptoms with an engaging smile; but 
when it became his turn to speak, the first word that fell from 
his lips was not a pretty one, nor pleasant for me to hear. 

Gout, my dear sir, nothing but gout,” laughing lightly, as 
though the whole matter was as simple as possible. “ Allow me 
to congratulate you. This Avill add ten years tc your life. A very 
fashionable, indeed, I may say a very aristocratic, complaint it 
is just now.” 

Sir Percival’s face broadened with a genial smile — mine 
lengthened. I have always had a constitutional, it may have 
been a prophetic, objection to gout, and now I was coolly told its 
clutches were already upon me. 

“Really, sir,” said I, “I cannot imagine what should lead you 
to say this. I am not aware of having any symptoms of this 
malady.” 

“ Of course not, of course not. Why, if people knew what 
was the matter with them, and how to treat themselves, where 
would be the use of us doctors? We should soon become only an 
additional item, and a rather large one, in your poor-rates. But 
you limped a little, Mr. Slocombe, as you entered my room; may 
I ask why?” 

“Bunions,” I replied, with decision, “very bad bunions.” 

“But not always equally painful? Worse some days, and 
better others? Boots feel a good fit this week and unbearably 
tight the next? Bunion red, shiny, swollen and puffy to the 
touch?” 


I bowed my head in assent. 

“ Just so, just so. Call it bunions, Mr. Slocombe, if you please. 
Ha, hal a capital joke, that; but gout is a shorter word to say, 
and a truer one; don’t waste too much breath or too many 
syllables over your ailments.” 

I M^as beginning to hate tlie pleasant laugh that made so light 
of my distresses, and I asked rather stiffly: 

“ What do you prescribe. Sir Percival?” 

“ Been abroad much? No? That’s right. Change of air and scene 
will do you infinite good, clieer up your spirits, and give you some- 
thing fresh to think about. Let me see, Salzbrun, I think, will 
be the thing for you; charming place, very lively. Put your- 
self under the care ot my good friend Dr. Trinkwasser; he will 
regulate your use of the mineral waters, and in six weeks they 
will make another man of you. No more gout then, sir. I’ll 


COUNTESS VERA. 149 

write you a little prescription for present use.” (Scribble, scrib- 
ble, scribble, went the long-tailed goose-quill.) “ There, sir, 
that note explains to Dr. Trinkwasser all that I need tell him. 
Start this week, if possible; hon voyage! Good-day; thank yon, 
much obliged. Good-morning.” And leaving a neatly- papered 
fee in the white hand that shook mine, I quitted the doctor's 
presence to think over the advice he had given me. 

Presently I hailed a passing cab, and told the man to drive to 
my brother Herbert’s address. Herbert is a clergyman, and is 
wearing out his life and strength in an East-end parish, where 
his wife and children lead lives scarcely less bflsy than his own. 
Very few of the party were at home on this occasion; only half 
a dozen, including the father and mother, sat down to the early 
dinner which supplied me with lunch; but the sight of so many 
cheerful faces round the table was a pleasant change from my 
usual solitary meals. Herbert is many years younger than I am; 
but he married early, and the eldest of his ten children is a bright, 
merry-looking girl of eighteen, Emmie by name. She is, more- 
over, my god-child, and is rather a favorite of mine, because I 
see no foolish, nonsensical young ladyism about her. She does 
not disfigure herself with a fuzz of hair daugling over her eyes, 
but has nice sensible shining locks, which always look clean and 
well-brushed. She was paler than usual to-day, and there was 
listlessness in her manner suck as I had never seen before in 
buoyant Emmie. I could not help remarking upon it to her 
mother when she was out of the room; and Miriam sighed and 
looked a litte anxious as she answered: 

“ I do not think Emmie is very well, Adolphus. She had a 
heavy influenza cold in the spring, just after we had all been 
afflicted with mumps, and she has never been quite herself 
since. The doctor calls it lassitude and want of tone.” 

“ And what does he do for her?” 

“ He has prescribed a tonic, which she is taking regularly; 
but what she really wants, he says, is a thorough change of air 
and scene, and that, yon know, we cannot give her until we take 
our holiday August. She is a dear good girl, and when she is at 
liome she will work, in hope of giving me less to do, I believe;” 
and here Miriam’s eyes began to glisben as she looked at me. 

“You might have sent her down to me,” I growled; and then 
a thought struck me. Why should not Emmie go to Salzbrun? it 
would be the very thing for her, and not at all unpleasant for 
me to have a fresh young fellow-traveler to enjoy the sights and 
help me through the inevitable discomforts. Perhaps, too,Emmie’s 
education having been so much more recently polished than my 
own, her powers of French conversation might be in better 
working order than mine, which, if not exactly the worse for 
wear, had certainly grown somewhat rusty from lying idle all 
these years; nay, more, it was possible that Emmie might have 
learnt German. That decided me. 

“ Miriam,” I said, “ will you let me take the child with me to 
Salzbrun next week? Of course, you should have no expense 
about the trip, and I think that she and I could be very jolly to- 
gether for a couple of months or so.” 


150 


COUNTESS VERA, 


The tears standing in my sister’s eyes welled over on her 
clieeks; it would be the greatest comfort to her to let her 
daughter go abroad, the best possible thing for Emmie, and such 
a real help and kindness on my part. It seemed a relief to her to 
thank me; but I hate being thanked, and stopped her as soon as I 
could. 

Emmie’s look of delighted surprise when she heard the })lan 
was worth seeing, her rapturous hug of gratitude not altogether 
disagreeable, provided it were not too frequently repeated; and 
Herbei-t grasped my hand more fervently than usual when I 
asked for his approval. 

“Then, when can you be ready? Sir Percival Pylle said start 
this week, if possible; but I am willing to wait over Sunday for 
you, Emmie. Take as little luggage, as you can, and meet me at 
Charing Cross on Tuesday morning. Will that do?” 

Yes, that would give time enough for preparations, Miriam 
said; so I was free to go home and see about my own, and as I 
put a piece of paper into Emmie’s hand at parting, I added, 
“ Mind you don’t buy anything that will make you look remark- 
able — I am not going to travel about with a scare-crow; and if 
you dare to bring a heap of luggage to the station, I’ll leave the 
half of at it Charing Cross, a single man of my age cant be going 
about the world in charge of a dozen band-boxes, even if he is 
foolish enough to be troubled with a niece.” My mouth was 
stopped with kisses, and then she let me go. 

Tuesday morning was clear and sunny. Herbert and Emmie 
were at the station before me, and it was not without a feeling of 
satisfaction that I surveyed my niece. Her travehng costume 
was simple and well-fitting, hat and ulster equally suitabhj, and 
her luggage, dear little girl, consisted of only one moderate-sized 
portmanteau and the bag she carried in her hand. We started in 
excellent spirits; and I was not ill-pleased to hear some favorable 
comments, made by more than one passenger on board the steam- 
er, on my young relative’s appearance, coupled with the remark 
that she was evidently traveling with her father, whom she 
much resembled. 

We did not hurry too much on our way to Salzbrun. Every- 
thing was new to Emmie, and she enjoyed it all, looking upon 
each small contretemps that befell us as only a fresh subject for 
fun. There never was such a girl to find pleasure in trifles, 
which other folks would pass unnoticed, and her laugh was as 
clear and sunny as ner fresh, bright face. 

It was late when we reached our destination, a very fine hotel, 
full of very fine visitors, in what- was supposed to be the best sit- 
uation in Salzbrun. I saw Dr. Trinkwasser the next morning, 
and, when he had directed me as to the kind and amount of min- 
eral waters I was to swallow, we fell quickly into the ordinary 
routine of the place. Emmie insisted on getting up in time to 
go with me to the spring from which I fetched my early morning 
draught, and then we took the prescribed constitutional, and 
watched the gay assemblage passing to and fro while we listened 
to the lively music of an excellent band. 

“Indeed, uncle, half the fun of being here is in getting up in 


COUNTESS VEIiA. 


151 


the morning and watching the water-drinlcers,” Emmie assured ^ 
me. “ Did you see the faces that fat old German lady made this 
morning when she got her second glassful? I do believe she 
must be related somehow to those horrid gutta-percha dolls the 
children have; no merely human cheeks seem capable of going, 
day by day, through such contortions without getting permanent- 
ly fixed in one of them. Old nurse used to tell us, when we 
made grimaces, that if the wind were to change that very min- 
ute we should never be able to get our natural faces again. She 
did frighten me so; and now I try to keep one eye on Frau 
Schimpf’s visage and one on the weathercock; then, in case any- 
thing happened, I should be able to explain it to the doctors, 
and bear witness against the false, inconstant winds.” 

If loquacity be a sign of health, there was no longer anything 
amiss with my niece^ for her tongue was seldom still, but rattled 
away incessantly whatever came into her head, and at this time 
it was generally nonsense that was uppermost. This Frau 
Schimpf , over whom she was now making merry, had acquired a 
certain sacredness in many eyes, not from any merit of her own, 
but because she was living in the character of dame de compagnie 
with the most admired inmate of our hotel — an inmate rendered 
all the more interesting by the slight cloud of mystery that hung 
about her. No one could discover Madame B.’s nationality; she 
might be Eussian, German, Hungarian, Pole— anything almost, 
except French or English; and then nobody knew whether or no 
Monsieur B. was in existence, and “Wife or widow?” was the 
unanswered inquiry made concerning her by every new arrival 
at the Schwartz Adler. Madam was tall, dignified, and grace- 
ful; her dress, invariably black (which settled the question of her 
widowhood in my mind), was made in the latest Parisian fashion, 
her white hands flashed with diamond rings, a faint pink tinged 
her cheeks, her brows were dark and well defined, her eyes dark 
and lustrous; but her greatest charm of all lay in her hair. It 
too was dark, raven-hued, and was arranged in piles and pyra- 
mids of curls and loops and bows, with all the ingenuity of the 
most artistic foreign- coiffeur; a jetty fringe fell in soft waves 
across her forehead; and from behind one ear a long, full, 
perfumed ringlet descended to her waist, or swayed gently on 
the breeze as she moved across the room. Madame B. was beau- 
tiful, distinguished, piquante; and this little Frau Schimpf, who 
sat beside her, was a short, stout, dumpy woman, unmistakably 
German, clad in an impossible and brilliant tartan, and given to 
loud speech and laughter, and the questionable habit of dipping 
into the salt before her the knife which, in the intervals of cut- 
ting up her meat, occasionally found its way into her mouth. 
Frau Schimpf was willing to chatter to any one. Madame B. talk- 
ed only to her, and always in German, that detestable tongue, of 
which I knew not one single word. 

Emmie ran up-stairs to fetch her hat, the first evening after 
dinner, and as she took my arm for a stroll, she asked eagerly: 

“Oh, uncle, did you see those two ladies who sat side by side- 
one in black silk and the other in all the colors of the rainbow? 
Were not they an odd contrast? And did you ever in your life 


152 


COUNTESS VERA. 


, see anything like that younger lady’s hair? Do you believe it is 
all growing? I did so long to give the curl a little tweak to see 
if it would come off.” 

“My dear child,” 1 said severely, for her remarks appeared 
to me rather flippant, “ that is not a nice way for you to talk; 
perhaps these same ladies may be wondering now whether that 
great brown coil at the back of your head is all your own.” 

“ They may come and pull it if they like,” returned the girl, 
laughing; “ every bit of it is home produce, grown on the prem- 
ises, and warranted genuine.” 

“ At any rate this lady’s locks are arranged in a most artistic 
manner.” 

“ Artistic? I should think it was I” and Emmie was off again 
in one of her hearty laughs. “Why, Uncle Adolphus, that is 
just the very thing that tickles my fancy. Jt is too artistic, too 
unnatural; I am sure Eve never wore her hair in that style, nor 
Venus, nor — nor anybody that ever was taken for a model,” 

• urged the girl, getting a trifle confused in her examples of 
style. 

“ Hair-pins and curling-tongs were not invented in those early 
days,” said I, trying to be repressive. “ What a remarkably flne 
sunset we are having.” 

Emmie followed my lead, and we talked of the beauty of the 
evening, and the wonderful effects of sunset coloring in different 
states of the atmosphere; but my thoughts, I must confess, were 
busied still with the beautiful being whom my eyes detected in 
the hotel gardens below us. How utterly unlike my early dreams 
and visions, and yet what an adorable creature she was. Tliis 
was, perhaps, rather more than I allowed to myself on that first 
evening; but day by day my admiration for Madame B. deepen- 
ed, and I began to contrast with her all other women of my ac- 
quaintance, but always to their disparagement. Even Emmie, 
my bright little niece, lost something of her piquancy during this 
process. Inclined to admire all that was foreign, the smooth, 
shining hair parted on Emmie's forehead looked to me now “ so 
dreadfully English.” I had always thought Miriam a sensible 
woman for forbidding her girls to disfigure themselves with 
fringes — idiot f ringes, I had called them, when in my ignorance 
I aided and abetted her decision. Ah, well! one’s mind grows 
broader with more varied experience, and mine now widened fast, 
until I positively longed to see some wandering tendrils straying 
across my niece’s brow, if a row of bright wavy locks was impos- 
sible for her. I did not tell her so then, and I was glad afterward 
that I had been wise enough to avoid tlie subject. 

We were by no means the only inmates of our hotel to whom 
the beautiful unknown became an object of interest. Her eyes, 
her hair, her diamonds, her languid grace, were topics often 
dwelt on in the smoking-room; and as I sat puffing silently my 
evening pipe of peace, I gleaned at last a few facts concerning 
her. Madame B. had come to Salzbrun for her health, but 
what was the matter with her nobody knew. Frau Schimpf 
came for health too, but she was also the lady’s paid companion. 
Every morning when we went to the spring for my draught of 


COUNTESS VERA. 


153 


mineral water, the dumpy little German was there before us 
getting hers also; but the stately beauty never came. And at 
last I learned that, instead of drinking tne waters like the vulgar 
herd of us, Madame B. was amongst the selecter few for whom 
a course of mud-baths only was prescribed. Emmie’s mirth had 
been greatly excited at the notion of these baths, and she was 
always begging me to let her try one, “just for the fun of it,” be- 
cause she was “ convinced that they must make one feel like an 
eel or a tadpole, and she wanted to find out which of the two it 
was.” The very mention of such creatures in connection with the 
baths seemed a positive insult to Madame B. 

When we had been about ten days at Salzbrun, a sad thing 
happened. Little Gretchen, tlie smiling Madchen who used to 
fill up, from the spring which Frau Schimpf and I frequented, 
the glasses handed to her by the drinkers, was missing one morn- 
ings a stranger was in her place, and p.jsently the story flew 
from mouth to mouth that the poor child had been knocked 
down by a runaway horse the previous evening; her leg was 
broken, and broken badly. Anna, who had come to do her 
work, said the little maiden was in sore pain, but brave and 
patient, and that the Herr Doctor had shaken his head and look- 
ed very grave about the accident. 

The morning sunshine shone less bright than usual that day to 
many who heard the tale, for Gretchen’s modest behavior and 
pleasant courtesy had made her a favorite with all her customers. 
The lively music of the band failed to inspirit us, and when 
Emmie and I had taken our compulsory walk, and fetched in 
little paper bags the rolls that were to serve for our breakfast, 
we sat down sadly and gravely enough, at a little table under 
the shady trees, to drink our coffee. 

“ Can’t we do anything for Gretchen, uncle?” . 

“We can give her some money,” I suggested; “ doctors cost 
more than she can afford, poor child.” 

Just then Frau Schimpf, who was breakfasting at a table near 
us, and with whom Emmie had occasionally exchanged a few 
words, turned round and said something to her in German. And 
then followed a conversation, in the course of which my niece 
learnt fuller particulars of the recent accident. It appeared that 
Gretchen was the eldest child of a large family, and the only 
member of it besides the mother capable of earning anything. 
That mother was a widow, herself too delicate to be able to work 
much ; and now the poor girl’s weekly wage must cease, for she 
could never be well enough this summer to resume her post. 
“ Even if she ever does get well enough,” continued the German 
lady. “ I have seen the HeiT Doctor only this last half-hour, and 
he says her injuries are so severe he cannot yet tell whether she 
may not have to lose her leg, and then what would become of 
them? Gretchen, even with a wooden leg, would not be able to 
stoop fast enough to fill the visitors’ glasses another season, and 
what else could she do? Besides,” added the good woman 
reflectively, “a wooden led is expensive; it wears out — you have 
to buy another. Gretchen is young; she may live long enough to 
need a dozen wooden legs before she dies, to say nothing of 


154 


COUNTESS VERA. 


sticks and crutclies.” And as Emmie translated to me this do- 
lorous suggestion, Frau Schimpf finished her repast and walked 
away. 

We found that Gretchen’s accident had created quite a little 
excitement at the Schwartz Adler, where many of her custom- 
ers were staying; and before dinner-time the general desire to 
help the iittle maiden had taken definite form, and it was unani- 
mously decided that the visitors at the hotel should get up an 
entertainment something in the style of penny readings at home 
for her benefit. It was to come off as soon as possible, while the 
interest was at its hight; and ardent spirits amongst us formed 
themselves into a committee of management, and went about 
the house, knocking at every one’s door in search of talent of all 
kind to swell their programme for the following Tuesday, 
day. Emmie and I were requested to give our valuable services; 
but happily the house contained so many stars more brilliant 
than ourselves that we were permitted to sink into contented in- 
significance after purchasing our five franc tickets for the enter- 
tainment. 

It was wonderfully well got up: somehow these things arrange 
themselves more easily and simply amongst foreigners than wdth 
us, and the number of performers was astonisliing. There was a 
gentleman who played the fiute, another who accompanied his 
wife’s pianoforte music on the violoncello, several amateur sing-* 
ers with voices far above the average, brilliant pianists and vio- 
linists, besides readers and reciters in French, English, and Ger- 
man, to suit all tastes. The landlord placed his big salon at tlie 
disposal of the committee, and Emmie assisted a bevy of ladies 
to deck its walls with flowers and evergroens, Avhile the non-per- 
forming gentlemen, myself amongst them, went to and fro exe- 
cuting their sometimes rather contradictory orders. Amongst 
them all I looked in vain for Madame B. What a sweet retiring 
disposition slie must have! I thought, for she is never visible ex- 
cept at dinner-time; but by and by Frau Schimpf came bustling 
in, and presently Emmie ran up to me with a translation of that 
worthy woman’s latest remarks. 

“ She says we shall have a treat indeed this evening, uncle, for 
Madame B. has at last consented, under extreme pressure, to re- 
cite in German.” 

“Admirable woman!’ said I, which was what I thought; but 
Emmie fancied it was spoken ironically, and went on to rebuke 
me gently. 

“You shouldn’t laugh at her,” she said; “ it really must be 
^ horrid to have to stand up and spout before all these people; and 
I don’t wonder it took a lot of coaxing to persuade her to do it. 
I don’t think even you, my much and deservedly beloved uncle, 
would ever be able to induce me to perform in public.” 

“ And if I could, my dear, you would not be worth hearing,” 
returned I; for we were on terms of friendly chaff, and I liked 
her to get occasionally as good as she gave. 

Pi’esently she came back to me. 

“Our latest bulletin,” she whispered; “ Madame B. is by no 
means unaccustomed to public speaking; she has un talent, and 


COUJ^TESS VERA, 


155 


is in the habit of exercising it at some sort of club — Vcrein they 
call it— in Berlin.” 

This upset the modest violet theory; but, after all, the glorious 
rose which basks in fullest sunshine is a finer flower; anyway, 
there was much to admire in the lady; and when at the ap- 
pointed hour she was handed, by two or three gentlemen in 
waiting, to the front of the extempore platform in the salon, and 
stood there self-possessed and stately in her trailing black silk 
robe, while her audience clapped a welc#me, I declare my heart 
went pit-a-pat with excitement, just as though I were a boy of 
nineteen. 

The lady waited for silence with downcast eyes, but when the 
room was hushed into stillness she raisM them suddenly with a 
quick change of expression, and in a rich clear voice began to 
speak in German. That there were rhymes in what she recited 
even my ignorant ears could catch, but the extraordinary thing 
about it was the incessant repetition of my own name in every 
variety of tone, now playful, now tender, now coaxing, 
now petulant; and once when her accent was especially caress- 
ing, the dark eyes rested for an instant on my face, bringing a 
tinge of red above my respectable British whiskeis. What was 
it all about? Was it possible that Madame B. was acquainted 
with my Christian name? that she was conscious of my fervent 
admiration, and not displeased by it? And here I became aware 
that Emmie was indulging in a paroxysm of laughter and de- 
light beside me, while a storm of rapturous applause burst out 
all over the room as the melodious voice ceased and Madame B. 
bowed her acknowledgments. She came back again and recited 
something else — of wliich I could not understand a word — ^before 
Emmie had time to explain the first piece, but I hardly listened 
now; I was sitting in a strangely delicious dream. Adolph? yes, 
certainly that was the German for my own name Adolphus, but 
never had I imagined the variety of sweet inflections with which 
that name could be uttered. 

“I shall always call you uncle Adolph in future,” cried Emmie, 
breaking in upon my revery. “ It is a much prettier name than 
Adolphus, and ever so much shorter. Oh, dear, I do wish I could 
say it in half as many different ways as Madame B. can!” 

“ But what was it all about?” 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon, uncle. I forgot you did not understand. 
It was just the loveliest tiling you ever heard. The poem begins 
by saying not exactly ‘ what’s in a name?’ but by suggesting that 
we hardly know what there is in it until we tiy to use it under a 
great variety of circumstances; and then it takes a common 
German name, Adolph, and puts it into the mouth of a girl who 
is talking to her lover; and sometimes she pets him, and some- 
times she pretends to scold him, or to take offense, and then she 
is in despair at parting from him, and overjoyed to meet again. 
You could make out all that for yourself, couldn’t you, from the 
way Madame B. pronounced your name?’ 

“I never heard anything to equal her; it is wonderfully 
clever.” 

“ She must have had plenty of practice, mustn’t she?” remarked 


156 


COUNTESS VERA. 


Emmie, taking a view of the matter which fell rather like a wet 
blanket on my enthusiasm. “ I expect she has recited that poem 
dozens of times before. You see she says it off by heart, and 
Frau Schimpf told me she is accustomed to immense audiences 
in Berlin, and thinks nothing at all of the people here.” 

Our entertainment was an undeniable success, and the com- 
mittee were able to hand over for Gretchen’s use a sum of money 
sufficient to keep the little maiden in comfort for many months to 
come. Its results, so far as I was concerned, were less happy. My 
thoughts would wander off too constantly to Madame B. I 
began to show small civilities to the dame de compagnie, who 
took them in very good part; and listening to the ease and fluency 
with which she rattled off her native language, it appeared to 
me that speaking German must really be an easier, simpler 
thing than I used to imagine, and I resolved to set to work at 
once to pick up all I could of it. Ja nein^ those were words I 
knew already, and I had learnt to call Kellner in commanding 
tones whenever there were any orders to be given tlirough 
Emmie to the waiters. I would go a little further now, and one 
day, when the child had been telling me some long story of her 
adventures while I had been writing letters, I drew myself up, 
and replied complacently. 

“ Ach, soT But Emmie was not impressed, as I had expected 
her to be, by my proficiency; indeed, she took it quite the 
wrong way, for she leant back in her chair with a burst of 
laughter that surprised me, and as soon as she could speak, ex- 
claimed, 

“ My dearest uncle Adolph ” (she had called me so ever since 
the memorable Tuesday night), “you really are too funny. 
When I come down to stay with you in the winter we will get 
up some private theatricals, and you will bring the house down. 

I had not the faintest notion you were such a mimic; it is 
inimitable, just her very tone and manner to the life.” 

“Whose tone and manner?” I asked, faintly, trying to look un- 
conscious. 

“Why, Frau Schimpf s, of course; it could not be any one 
else. Oh uncle Adolph, what a shame of you to be so civil to the 
poor old thing, when all the time you were doing it only to get 
that up! Do say it again, though; I can’t think how you coffid 
contrive to catch her voice and accent so completely.” 

We were wandering about next morning, in the direction of 
the ladies’ mud-baths, when our attention was suddenly caught 
by loud screams proceeding from one of them, as of somebody 
in deadly fear. Several people came running to the spot; there 
was a commotion both inside and outside the building, and at 
last the word Schlange — snake — began to pass from mouth to 
mouth. Was there a viper in one of the ladies’ baths? The idea 
appeared too horrible. Poor Emmie turned pale at the thought, 
and asked anxiously if German snakes were dangerous; but not 
two people gave her the same answer, and at last the brilliant 
suggestion occurred to her that it might, perhaps, be only an 
eel. 

I looked at my watch, and found it was already past the time 


COUhTESS VERA. 


157 


for my second glass of mineral water, and Emmie decided to 
stay where she was while I went in search of it, in the hopes of 
hearing the end of this strange affair. Twenty minutes later I 
returned, to find her leaning for support against a tree, exhaust- 
ed by mirth, which burst out afresh at sight of me, while every 
face I met was expanded into a broad grin. 

“ Oh uncle Adolph, it is too ridiculous!” she panted, as she ran 
up to me and seized my arm. “ What do you think it was? It 
was Madame B.’s bath, you know; and after she got into it she felt 
something in the mud, and she thought it was a snake, and 
screamed and made a tremendous fuss; and the bath-people 
came rushing to help her, and they got sticks and rakes and 
poked about in the mud, and, oh! what do you think they found 
in the bath?” 

“ Surely not the eel you suggested?” I asked faintly. 

“ A curl, Uncle Adolph! just that very identical long black 
curl you thought so beautiful! and it had got all straight and 
horrid in the mud, and really must have been unpleasantly like 
a snake co put one’s foot on. But that is not all,” she went on, 
“ for it seems that poor Madame is bald, absolutely bcdd, and all 
those bows and fringes are nothing but a wig, and take on and 
off like a helmet; and to-day she must -have been thinking of 
something else, for she stepped into her bath with the hair on, 
and this cuil dropped into the mud. I do feel sorry for her, for 
when the people showed her what they had found, she was so 
angry that they say she tore the rest of the wig off her head, and 
threw it at them in a passion. So now everybody in the place 
will know that Madame B. is bald and artificially got up, and I 
should not wonder if the discovery drove her quite away from 
Salzbrim at once.” 

Emmie was right; that very afternoon the two ladies left the 
place, taking leave of none, and not caring to face any of their 
former companions. At night the subject was discussed at 
table d'hote; fresh incidents were supplied, dull witticisms were 
made about Medusa and her snaky locks, and those who had 
before been most inclined to offer incense at the shrine of 
Madame B. were foremost now in hinting that her teeth, her 
eyebrows, and the faint pink color in her cheeks were one and 
all as artificial as her hair. As for me, I held my tongue. No- 
body, not even Emmie, had the least suspicion of my budding 
tendresse for the fascinating widow, and by and by some farther 
particulars became knowh about her. Her husband, a wealthy 
jeweler of Berlin, had been dead about two years, and had proba- 
bly bequeathed to her, amongst much else, the diamond hoops 
which flashed so brightly on her pretty hands. 

My dream was over, I had been rudely awakened. Not for 
the sake of hearing “Adolph ” murmured all day long in the soft 
accents of that dulcet voice could I, an English country gentle- 
man, for a moment contemplate allying myself with the made- 
up widow of a German shopkeeper, liow^ever beautiful and at- 
tractive her appearance might be in full “ war-paint.” No, I 
would go back to my old home and my old vvays, and forget the 
f()reign siren who had dazzled me for a while. 


158 


COUNl'ESS VERA. 


We stayed on at Salzbrun until my course of water-drinkiug 
was over, and then, after a fortnight’s tour through other parts of 
Germany, I brought my niece home with me to the Manor 
House. 

Emmie had grown very dear to me in all these weeks that we 
have spent together. I do not think it would be quite fair to ask 
her parents to let her live with me entirely and be my adopted 
daughter; but I have been trying on one excuse and another to 
lengthen out her stay, and fondly hoped the Manor House would 
be a second home to her, and that at least half her time would 
in future be spent with me. 

But what is the use of planning? My fine schemes were aM 
knocked on the head this morning, in the course of an hour’s 
conversation, and I and my projects are simply nowhere in the 
new state of things. 

I was standing on my doorstep after breakfast, smoking calm- 
ly, and at peace with all mankind, when young Fred Willough- 
by came riding up the drive. 

“Hullo, young man,” said I, “why are you not after the 
hounds this morningr You can’t have better weather in Novem- 
ber, and you won’t find any fox in this direction, take my word 
for it.” 

“ It is rather a dove than a fox that I have come in pursuit of 
to-day, Mr. Slocombe. Can you give me ten minutes in the 
study?” 

In less than that time he had poured out a fervid declaration 
of his (ievotion to my niece, of his parents’ approval of his choice, 
and would I — could I give him any hope that Mr. and Mrs. Her- 
bert Slocombe would ever be persuaded to allow him to marry 
their daughter? Of course he soon persuaded me. Fred is a 
thoroughly good fellow, the son of old and tried friends, and can 
promise his wife a future fairly free from any money anxieties. 
He is evidently much attached to Emmie, and I believe will 
make her truly happy. So, by and by, we shall have another 
wedding, and then 1 know exactly how it will be in the future. 
History, they say, repeats itself. So somebody’s marriage will 
inconvenience me; I shall lose my head housekeeper in Emmie. 
There will be bad times for the garden agaih next spring, I 
know there will, and I shall be worried and out of sorts, and 
shall suffer from bunions, or something else, and then Hunter 
will send me to Sir Percival Pylle for good advice. I see the 
whole programme before me, like some dreadful nightmare; 
but I can be firm upon occasions, and I do solemnly declare that 
nothing, not even the advice of the most learned and fashion- 
able of physicians, shall ever again induce me to seek for health 
in the neighborhood of a German mud-bath. 

[the end.] 



The treatment of many thousands of 
isies of those chronic weaknesses and 
Stressing ailments peculiar to females, 

; the Invalids’ Hotel and Surgical In- 
itute, Buffalo, N. Y., has afforded a 
iflt experience in nicely adapting and 
lorou^hly testing remedies for the 
ire of woman’s peculiar maladies. 

'Or. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
lon is the outgrowth, or result, of this 
t&it and valuable experience. Thou- 
^ds of testimonials received from pa- 
ints and fi’om physicians who have 
^ed it in the more aggravated and 
|i'«tinate cases which had baffled their 

! :ill, prove it to be the most wonderful 
lOledy ever devised for the relief and 
if^'of suffering women. Tt is not re- 
)ihmendod as a “cure-all,” but as a 
6st perfect Specific for woman’s 
iculiar ailmeftts. 

A» a powerful, iuvig;oratin 3 r 

bliic it imparts strength to the v/hole 
pstem, and to the uterus, or womb and 
» appendages, in particular. For over- 
iorked, “worn-out,” “run-down,” do- 
ilitated teachers, milliners, dressmak- 
1 $, seamstresses, “shop-girls,” house- 
je^pera, nursing mothers, and feeble 
bjmen generally. Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
'itocription is the greatest earth.ly boon, 
blng unequalled as an appetizing coi’- 
lit; and restorative tonic. It promotes 
Igestion aiid assimilation of food, cui*os 
f(,usca, weakness of stomach, indiges- 
ijm, bloating and eructations of gas. 

a and streiigtlicn* 

rig nervine, “ Favorite Prcs.Tiption ” 

I unequalled and is invaluable in allay- 
and subduing nervous excitability, 
tiitability, exhaustion, prostration, hys- 
Mia, spasms and other distressing, nerv- 
iPlsymptorns commonly attendant upon 
pactional and organic disease of the 
r<imb. It induces refreshing sleep and 
^$eves mental anxiety and despond- 

Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
'>n is a IcgitiKiato juedieine, 
•ef.ullv compounded by an experienc- 
and ikillful physician, and adaptbd 
: woman’s fh'licate organization. It is- 
•ujel / v egetable in its composition and 


perfectly harmless In Its effects In any 
condition of the system. 

Favorite Prescription** Is a 
positive cure for the most compli- 
cated and obstinate cases of leucorrhea, 
or “ whites,” jxcessive flowing at month- 
ly periods, painful menstruation, unnat- 
ural suppressions, prolapsus or filing 
of the womb, weak back, “female weak- 
ness,” antevereion, retroversion, bearing- 
down sensations, chronic congestion, in- 
flammation and ulceration of the womb, 
inflammation, pain and tenderness in 
ovaries, accompanied with internal heat. 

Ill pregnancy, “ Favorite Prescrip- 
tion” is a “mother’s coi'dial,” relieving 
nausea, weakness of stomach and other 
distressing symptoms common to that 
condition. If its use is kept up in the 
latter months of gestation, it so prepares 
the system for delivery as to greatly 
lessen, and many times almost entirely 
do away with the sufferings of that t-ry- 
ing ordeal. 

Favorite Prescription,*’ Vhen 
taken in connection with the use of 
Dr. Pierce’s Golden Medical Discovery, 
and small laxative doses of Dr. Pierce’s 
Purgative Pellets (Little Liver Pills), 
cures Liver, Kidney and Bladder dis- 
eases. Their combined use also removes 
blood taints, and abolishes cancerous 
and scrofulous humors from the system. 

Treating tlie Wrong Disease.— 
Many times women call on their family 
physicians, suffering, as they imagine, 
one from dyspepsia, another from heart 
disease, another from liver oi^^kidney 
disease, another from nervous! exhaus- 
tion or prostration, another witffl pain 
hei-e or there, and in this way they all 
present alike to themselves and their 
easy-going and indifferent, or over-busy 
doctor, separate and distinct diseases, 
for which ho prescribes his pills and 
potions, assuming them to be s«ich, 
when, in reality, they are all only si/7rq>- 
toms caused by some womb disorder. 
The physician, ignorant of the cause of 
suffering, encourages his practice until 
large bills are made. The suffering pa- 
tient gets no better, but probably worse 
by reason of the delay, VTrong treatment 
and consequent complications. A prop- 
er medicine, like Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription, directed to the came would 
have entirely removed the disease, tliere- 
by dispelling all those distressing symp- 
toms, and instituting comfort instead of 
prolonged misery. 

Favorite Prescription*’ is the 

only medicine for women sold, by drug- 
gists, under a positive guarantee, 
from the manufacturers, that it will 
giv'e satisfaction in every case, or money 
will bo refunded. This guarantee has 
been printed on the bottle-wrapper, and 
faithfully canned out for many years. 
l»arge bottles (1(X) doses) $1.00, or 
six bottles for $5.00. • 

fi^Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
Pierce’s large, illustrated Treatise (IGO 
pages) on Diseases of Women. Aihiress, 
"World’s Dispensary Medical Association, 
JNO, 668 Main bTBKXT, buffalo^ a. T» 







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